The First Blight: The Untold Story
by Liatris5113
Summary: Everyone knows the story of how the Hero of Ferelden had ended the Fifth Blight, but no one knows the tale of how it all began. How Thedas first dealt with what was to be the First Blight and the heroes who rose up to defeat it. This is their story.
1. Chapter 1

I'm kind of nervous about posting this here ^^' Anyway, the characters who'll be involved in this story are the ancestors of the Wardens from the Dragon Age and I'll be using Malcolm Cousland (the guy from the Urn of Sacred Ashes trailer) because I think he's a perfect model for a Grey Warden plus I've been wanting to work in his character for some time now. :)

So...right, disclaimers:

Dragon Age does not belong to me and the concept of Malcolm does not belong to me (but his personality will, I presume).

The Magister in Tevinter

800 T.E.

He could hear them so clearly now: the Old Gods, even when he was awake. Before he could only hear their calls when he was his spiritual self wandered in the Fade: that ethereal realm that all living things go to when they sleep. It was during his dreams did he first hear the call of the Old Gods. But he heard more than their calls, he heard their desperation, their torment; he _felt _their pain of being trapped underground, with tons of crushing rock above their heads, with only darkness for company.

And Thalsian**[1]** now had the power to end it.

He had never dreamed that he could possess magic of such caliber, but today, he did and it was all because of the Old Gods. They taught him everything that he needed to learn about magic and today, he was going to repay the favor: by releasing the Old Gods' from their imprisonment, by breaking their chains and creating a new age where magic is not to be feared, but worshipped.

_By usurping the False God sitting in his throne in the Golden City…_

It was this False God who condemned magic, who prevented mages from being so much more than they are and it was this False God to whom most humans bow to. Just the thought of it made Thalsian sick to his stomach. Why turn away from the Old Gods, those who would grant you true power? It made no sense to him. But soon, he will show the whole of Thedas who the real gods are.

_Let the Elves have their false deities…_

_Let the dwarves bow down to the stone…_

_Let the ignorant humans turn to the Maker…_

Thalsian had so much more. The power.

_And the blood._

Chains jingled noisily against each other as slaves entered the dome, every one of them looking frightened and confused, as a precaution the other magisters had their wrists and feet fettered, one slave's chain linking to the next so that the chances of escape are almost nonexistent. Although in Thalsian's opinion, this was not needed at all. He and the other magisters had spent weeks combing the slave pens for just the right kind of slaves they would use for the ritual. Every one of these pathetic souls had the same glassy eyes, the same slack-jawed expression that hung heavily on their faces. Thalsia did not even need to hire guards to bring them in, they all heeded his orders dumbly, not one of them even trying to escape their fate. Although they may not know it, they share two things in common: all of them had given up hope of ever being set free and resigned themselves to a life of servitude.

And all of them are to be used for a higher purpose. They should be honored.

Beside Thalsian, Magister Corypheus wrinkled his nose at the multitude of slaves who shuffled listlessly into the dome.

"Would it not have hurt to give them a bath before you sent for them, Thalsian? They smell a little rank," he complained.

A _little rank _was an understatement, the mingled smell of sweat, body odors and urine that rose from them made Thalsian want to vomit, but instead, Thalsian shrugged at his fellow magister.

"It would have been a waste of water. And besides, these gutter rats have probably never even bathed in their life, giving them one now would kill them out of pure shock," he drawled.

Corypheus chuckled at that. "Droll as always, Magister," he said. Thalsian inclined his head slightly at the comment. The ringing of chains stopped as the slaves took their places in the middle of the room, looking around at their magister masters with confusion.

"Should we begin?" Corypheus asked him. Thalsian nodded and raised his voice so that the rest of the magisters scattered around the room would hear him.

"My fellow magisters," he intoned. "Every mage in this room has turned away from the False God, the peoples' so-called 'Maker' and have turned to the Old Gods, to the ones who have been imprisoned deep beneath the earth. All of you have found solace in their arms, have been given power beyond your dreams and today…" he smiled around at his fellow magisters, all of whom were eerily silent throughout the whole process. "…today we return the favor, by freeing them from the cruel cages that the False God has built for them," A wave of whispers erupted among the magisters and Thalsian could feel their approval. He raised his staff and his magic erupted out of it in the form of blue lightning, which sparked across its surface.

"With magic," he cried, and suddenly his voice seemed to be ten times louder, more powerful, more confident than it had ever been his whole life. "With blood," Lightning sparked at the end of his staff, arced and struck one of the slaves. Her wasted body lit up brighter than the sun; her mouth opening in a silent scream. The metal chains connecting her to the slaves allowed the electricity to travel to the others. Not enough kill them, but definitely enough to hurt them. Cries of pain echoed throughout the room. Soon, too soon, the slave was dead, her skin blackened and peeling off to reveal the flesh underneath.

_With blood…_

Thalsian's plan had been simple: to open a doorway to the Fade using the blood of hundreds of slaves and the power the magistrates. Once they were inside, the magistrates would use their power to overthrow the False God from his Throne in the Golden City and force to free the gods of old, the ones with the true power. After all, what were the spirits of the Fade compared to the might of the most powerful magisters of the Tevinter Imperium?

Never before in living memory had this been done and that is why it was with a soaring heart did Thalsian gaze at the portal that was being summoned into existence. It was they had torn a whole into reality itself, a gateway into two worlds that never should have been united. From his vantage point, Thalsian could see the Fade: a pathetic imitation of the world he knew. The magister could see the tendrils of the Fade reaching into the real world, like the realm itself was trying to leech the colors out of the real world, on account of it having no real colors of its own.

No longer could Thalsian hear the chant of the other magisters as they, too, chanted their individual spells nor the screams of the slaves. All he could hear was the voice of the Old Gods, welcoming him home.

_This was where he belonged._

_This was power._

When the portal had gotten big enough, the magisters had stepped through and entered the Fade. The realm was stranger than he thought: it was a world of faded colors, where everything seemed liquid around the edges and the only thing he can hear was the voice of the Old Gods, calling him…calling him. They are waiting for him to release them from the cages. He could see it: Golden City, shining like a beacon against the faded colors of the realm.

"Now that we're here," one of the magisters said slowly. "I hope it has not escaped your notice that there is no way to get to the Golden City?"

Thalsian smiled. "Will is everything in the Fade," he said softly. "With this much magic, we will able to summon a bridge leading to Golden City,"

The air thrummed with power as the magisters reigned in their power, as they focused their will and called a bridge into existence. The air between the Golden City and their part of the Fade seemed to become more solid, the colors becoming less washed out. Several gasps of disbelief punctuated the chanting as a bridge began to form. This feat however, took a lot more effort than Thalsian had anticipated.

By the end of the spell, his knees had turned to water and icy sweat soaked his robes. More than half of the magistrates had collapsed from exhaustion. But none of those left standing turned back to help them. Most likely they would fall prey to the demons; indeed Thalsian could already see a few wisps drawing nearer in curiosity, but that's how it was.

The strong prevail, the weak get left behind.

As Thalsian neared the Golden City, he could hear the screams of the Old Gods growing louder…louder…

_Soon…_he promised them. _Be patient. _And he was also made aware of a cold, hard anger that reverberated at the back of his skull. This was the anger of the False God, unable to understand what was happening, that he was being usurped; this was his only retaliation: a niggling emotion at the back of his mind.

_Pathetic._

_The False God didn't deserve the throne. _

So confident was the magistrate that he didn't realize that the stone beneath his feet had blackened and that the Old Gods had fallen silent. And when he stepped into the Golden City, he raised his eyes to take in the glory of the palace of heaven…

And screamed.

The vague but persistent anger at the back of his head exploded white hot into his brain. He could feel the heat of the False God's anger threatening to burn him, swallow him whole, consume him.

_Fight…_he told himself. _He is but a usurper…and you are a _magistrate. He summoned, tried to reach for his power, the one constant thing in his life. Before, it had always responded to his touch, eager to be wielded once again. But this time, he couldn't feel it. That place where his magic used to be was empty.

"No!" Thalsian screeched. "NO!" But as he denied it, the fire consumed him once again, the flames boiling his blood, searing his every thought until all he could do was scream and beg for mercy.

From what god(s), he did not know. It was then that he heard a voice echo throughout the Golden City; a voice both beautiful and terrible at the same time, a voice that he _knew _belonged to the True God.

"_And so is the Golden City blackened_

_With each step you take in my Hall._

_Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._

_You have brought Sin to Heaven_

_And doom upon all the world,_**[2]**_"_

The last sight that Thalsian ever saw as a human were the beautiful golden walls of the city blackening, aging, becoming corrupted by a dark entity that he could not see. Their shapes becoming hard and twisted as the darkness spread. All around him, he could hear the screams of the other magisters as their bodies burned, as the anger of the Maker boiled their very blood.

_No…_

_It wasn't supposed to _**be **_like this!_

Thalsian screamed.

He screamed for mercy.

He screamed for redemption.

He screamed for the Old Gods, the ones that had led him to this madness, the ones that he had believed in for so long.

But for the first time for as long as he can remember, they were silent.

**[1]:  
**Thalsian is an actual character from the Codex, he was the first one who was able to utilize blood magic.

**[2]:**

Although it seems a bit obvious, I want to point out (in the name of copyright) that the Maker's speech was copy-pasted from the Dragon Age Wiki, (.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light)

I hope you enjoyed! Please review? I'd really like some feed back! Thanks for reading! :)))


	2. Chapter 2

_Damn. I'm so sorry. I really should have put this in the _first_ chapter since it fits _so _much better into the 1__st__ one…In my defense I was writing the last few lines of the first chapter at about 2:30 in the morning and my eyes were growing heavy so you'll have to forgive me for a short chapter. _

_I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless! _

_**Disclaimer:**_

_**The world of Dragon Age does not belong to me. **_

**The Corrupted Magister**

800 T.E.

Even after the Maker threw them out of the Fade, Thalsian could still feel his anger burning white-hot at the back of his head. It frightened him that this False God's emotion was more palpable to him than the voices of the Old Gods ever were. He could _feel _this anger pulsating within him, filling his body with a searing heat.

In fact, the Maker's hatred for Thalsian and the other magisters seemed more like a poison than an actual emotion for he could feel it running through his veins: disgust and anger running so deep that it was all the magister could do not to tear at his skin and rid himself of such black hatred. It felt as though his own blood had betrayed him by spreading such a corruption inside his body.

_How ironic: for someone who uses blood as a source of power to be betrayed by it in the end. _The meaning of this was not lost on him, no doubt the False God meant to teach him a lesson. Thalsian opened his mouth to laugh at his pathetic predicament. To his horror, the sound that escaped his lips was not the weak chuckle he had been expecting but a hoarse grunt, one that didn't sound…human.

It was the first time that Thalsian took a look at himself since he had been thrown out of the Fade. He had expected burns, his skin blackened and cracked due to the fire that the False God had summoned to consume him. But what he saw was much worse.

The magisters dark skin had become pale and mottled, resembling the skin color of a day-old corpse. Several blisters had erupted along his arm, some oozing crimson pus. Thalsian could feel bile rising in his throat.

_What had happened to him? _He let his hands travel to his face, terrified of what he might find there. He noticed that his fingers tapered into cruelly sharp fingernails and did his best to be gentle as he touched his face.

The skin he felt underneath his fingertips was as rough as leather and he could feel the occasional scar or bump on the landscape of his face.

All the while, he could feel the False God's anger thrumming in the back of his head. Now, more than ever, he was terrified for the magister knew that the False God had changed him into something…not human.

He reached for his magic reserves, the well inside him that never runs dry; his only friend. He could cast a spell, an illusion on himself to hide his form until he could figure out how to turn himself back into the proud magister he once was.

And like before, he found his magical reserves empty. Not just empty, it was as if the False God had reached inside him and ripped out every ounce of magic he had in him.

_No…_

_Not this…Gods, no…Please, not his magic. Anything but that._

Desperately, he tried to reach for it again, trying to summon a simple wisp; a spell he cast a thousand times. Once summoned, the wisp would augment his powers greatly. Thalsian tried to chant the words that would create a small tear in the Veil that would allow a spirit to cross over into the world but found that his tongue could not form the words. It felt swollen and awkward inside his mouth, like it had forgotten how to speak. _Oh GODS! _If he could not chant, he would not be able to cast spells and if he could not cast spells then what was he but just another man?

Perhaps not even a man. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, rushing into him wave after dark wave until the magister feared that he might drown in it. He opened his mouth and screamed in terror and frustration. Hearing the inhuman sound that escaped him, the way it seemed more feral than human nearly drove him to his knees. Then he heard answering cries and he looked around him: amidst the corpses of the slaves he and his fellow magisters sacrificed, he could see a few magisters stirring. His breath caught in his throat. Every one of them looked exactly like him: coarse, pale skin, faces so disfigured they would have sent the bravest knight running, their hair having falling off to reveal a head riddled with scars and expressions of anguish as they realized that their magic had, for the first time in their long lives, refused to respond to their touch. Some of them, like Thalsian, had raised their heads and howled at the sky. Finding no solace in his magic, Thalsian instead reached for the Old Gods—surely _they_ would not abandon him—seeking help, wanting to hear their voices comforting him, telling him that everything was going to be all right; that they would avenge themselves upon the False God for daring to lay a hand against him.

But instead of reassurances, he found so much more.

He found their song. In his head, he could hear them singing a terrible song of lament and loss. Of yearning, yearning to be freed from their cage deep beneath the earth, Thalsian had never heard anything more beautiful or heartbreaking in his whole life. His pain, his anguish was nothing _nothing _compared to what the Old Gods were feeling. The song burned away everything: his despair, his worries and even the False God's anger, all of them were washed away as the he listened to their song. Only one thing now filled Thalsian's mind: Whatever the cost, he must free them. The magister dropped to his knees and, not even bothering to look for a tool, dug at the earth with his bare hands. So obsessed was he on releasing the Old Gods that he did not even realize that most of the magisters had also fallen to their knees and clawed at the earth with the same desperation as he.

They dug. They labored. And they persevered.

They dug until their hands bled and cracked. They dug until the hole was so deep they could no longer see the light of the sun, for which they were grateful, for its rays had become painful to their eyes. They dug until some of them died from exhaustion.

They dug until they could not even remembered their names.

But then again, names weren't very important. At least, not anymore. All that mattered to them now was the song of the Old Gods and a deep, burning desire to set them free.

They dug until they found _Him. _

The one that they called _Dumat. _And when they approached him, when they broke his chains so that he could be free, their blackness bled into Him. It was their blackness that turned His beautiful black scales into the same color as their own tainted blood, that made His great leathery wings crack and tear as He tried to spread them. And when Dumat opened his eyes, he was no longer Dumat the Old God. Instead, he was Dumat the Archdemon. Dumat's head buzzed with the voices of the magisters—if they could even be called that anymore—as each of them begged him to lead them. Dumat let out a roar, one that was not unlike the 'magisters' shrieks during the first day they had been cast out of the Fade. He had been set free by them, His faithful servants, they who had toiled tirelessly until His chains were broken. They were more than just servants.

They were his children. And so, the Archdemon embraced them. In the darkness of his broken cage, he promised them that the world will soon know the pain that they had went through. But now was not the time for that. Now was the time to rest and to recuperate. It was in these caverns that the Archdemon's children grew in number as they prepared for that day when they could wreak havoc upon the world.

They were known as the first Darkspawn.

_I am __**not **__satisfied with how this turned out, it feels so _sloppy_. I might edit it if I've got the time but as for now, this'll be as it is since it's 2:00 a.m. in the morning right now and I'm sleepy. :)))) _

_Information on much of how the darkspawn dug and found the Old Gods came from the Dragon Age Wikia _(_I know it's obvious but I'd feel better if I'd put it up here, to give credit where credit's due). Once again, I'm so sorry for this being so short but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Perhaps feedback? It would be nice. _


	3. Chapter 3

**The Dwarven Kingdoms**

**887 T.E.****[1]**

Varel had never been a brave dwarva** [2] **and he had never pretended to be otherwise. He certainly wasn't pretending now, in the dank tunnels that served as an entrance into Orzammar, one of the greatest dwarven kingdoms. Varel had once again drawn patrol duty, a job he absolutely _hated, _seeing as it involved patrolling the tunnels that led to the gates of Orzammar with nothing but darkness and the smell of deep mushrooms for company.

A few weeks ago, he would not have minded this so much, because Ralosh would have had his back. Ralosh was part of the Warrior Caste, just like him and they had been friends for as long as Varel cared to remember.

But Ralosh was gone or soon would be. Varel's friend had been one of the many dwarvas who have been severely injured in the last darkspawn raid. Ralosh had been one of the unluckier ones, having been exposed to their corruption, their _taint _while defending Orzammar during a particularly fierce raid_. _It was a disease that all those who fight the dark creatures have to risk, one that meant a slow and painful death. Varel had seen infected ones who had been nearing the end of their lives: raving lunatics with blotchy skin trying to sink their teeth into the nearest healer. He did not want to think of Ralosh degenerating into something like that.

It was all the darkspawn's fault.

_Darkspawn…_ The mere thought of the name had the dwarva reaching for the hilt of his great sword in equal parts fear and anger. None of them really knew where these creatures came from; many of their scholars believed that they had lived in the tunnels long before the dwarva had even existed and that by building their great kingdoms, they had disturbed the darkspawn's territory, prompting them into battle. Most of the Warrior Caste believed that they had been sent by the Stone to give the dwarvas a chance to prove themselves worthy of living inside the breast of the earth.

Some, like Varel quietly think that the darkspawn are the product of evil, of shadows; darkness given form. But as vague as their origins were, the darkspawns' intention were painfully clear, the creatures wanted nothing less than to completely dominate the tunnels in which the dwarvas had made their home; and to accomplish this, the darkspawn had to wage war against Varel's people, striking at their kingdoms again and again and again.

The scholars and the nobles both believe that this was a war that could last until the stone around them crumbles, that the dwarva would always be able to hold back the tides of darkness that knocked at their door day after day. But it was the Warrior Caste—the ones who have had to face down the monsters every time they knocked at the gates of Orzammar—that saw the futility of trying to overcome the darkspawn; their numbers seemed endless. Already, more than half of their cities have fallen to these creatures and the ones that survived had lost contact with each other.

Slowly, but surely, the dwarvas would lose the war.

Varel had never been a brave dwarva. And he feared the day that he would see his beloved city fall.

The dwarva forced himself out of his reverie, trying instead to focus on the path he was supposed to patrol. More often than not, dwarvas who do not pay attention to their surroundings ended up with a darkspawn blade buried in their skull.

Varel considered himself lucky that he had not met his end already, given his tendency to let his mind wander. Maybe it was because Ralosh had always been there to watch his back. The thought saddened Varel immensely.

The tiniest of movement among one of the boulders had Varel scrambling backwards and fumbling to unsheathe his great sword.

Because his circuit was one of the oft-treaded paths, the dwarva had taken care to install torches along the walls, shedding enough light so that the poor dwarvas who were assigned patrol duty did not stumble around in the dark but leaving the tunnels dark enough so that every shadow seemed menacing. Cold sweat trickled down the back of Varel's neck as he held his great sword aloft; searching for any sign that he was not the only living thing in these tunnels.

Others, especially the topsiders, would have laughed at him for being so cautious but Varel had not survived years in the tunnels by laughing off strange movements in an otherwise deserted passageway.

'_Only a fool trusts his eyes'_**[3]** as the saying goes.

Muscles taught and sweat beading his brow, the dwarva inched forward to the pile of stones where he believed he saw something move. The boulders were too small to hide a darkspawn but they were not the only creatures that lurked in the Deep Roads.

Varel's stomach clenched painfully as one of the rocks seemed to stir again, realizing what he was dealing with. The Tezpadam**[4]** (or Deep Stalkers, as surfacers called them) one of the very few species of monsters that seemed to thrive inside the Deep Roads, are vicious predators whose favorite method of taking down their prey was to lie in wait for easy prey, their skin coloration making it difficult for an unwary traveler to tell them apart from the rocks.

_And they liked to hunt in packs. _

He cast around wildly, all the while keeping an eye on the 'rock' that moved.

_If one of them was here, surely there would have to be more. _

He strained his ears, hoping for the slightest sound that might give away a possible location of a pack. Hearing nothing except the pounding of his own blood in his ears, Varel contemplated on the wisdom of blowing his horn to alert the other dwarva on patrol duty:

_Once for dwarves returning on excursions, twice for Tezpadam_ _and thrice for darkspawn. _

If he blew the horn, would the other warriors get to him before the Tezpadam ripped him to pieces? What if there was only one of those creatures, what then?

He would get laughed at by the entire Warrior Caste for being scared of a single Tezpadam, which was not much of a threat when caught alone. Worse yet, blowing the horn would mean forcing the other dwarva to abandon their posts and run to his rescue; creatures would easily be able to get into Orzammar if they leave their posts unguarded.

So intent was Varel on doing the right thing that he hardly noticed the Tezpadam that had been hiding among rocks slowly uncurl itself and rise slowly on its hind legs. It was a repulsive thing: almost two feet tall, with mottled scales the color of earth. Its head resembled that of an overgrown worm but its mouth contained teeth that were every bit as sharp as Varel's blade. Poor Varel did not realize that his intended prey had assumed the role of the hunter, not until the creature reared its head back and spat its acidic juices right in his chest.

The dwarva let out a low scream of surprise as he watched his breastplate being eaten away by the Tezpadam's spittle. No sooner had he registered this did he feel a Tezpadam ramming itself into his back. The combined force of impact and the Tezpadam's weight made Varel's knees buckle and he fell on all fours as the second Deep Stalker tried to rip his helmet off his head.

The first monster raised its maw and let out an earsplitting sound that made Varel want to scream.

_It was calling its pack. _The one on top of him bit deeply into his armor and a chill shot through the dwarva's spine as he heard the metal screech in protest. Rolling around, he tried to crush the monster under his weight at the same time, fighting to get his great sword to slice through the Tezpadam's neck.

The creature wasn't going to go down easy, its long neck snapping backward as it tried to sink its teeth in his face. Varel reeled back and brought down a mailed fist into the Deep Stalker's jaws. As he did, the dwarva noticed a strange, tickling sensation at his head.

To his horror, he realized that he had forgotten that he was fighting _two, _not one Tezpadam and he had taken for granted the spitter. Now its acid was eating its way through his helmet.

Jumping away from the dazed monster he had punched, he ripped off his helmet and backed himself into a corner, sword still in hand.

Two wasn't so bad. He could handle two Tezpadam, just don't—

As if on cue, the spitter raised its maw and let out an ear-piercing shriek, a sound that Varel knew would attract every Deep Stalker in a mile-radius. Varel ignored the persistent throbbing in his bladder as the stones in the cavern seemed to have given birth to Tezpadam's. Five, six, ten seeming to detach themselves from the earth, one of them, a particularly large specimen almost as big as Varel himself, the dwarva identified as a Matriarch. What would a Matriarch be doing this close to Orzammar? There were no easy pickings in the tunnels this close to his city.

_Except a fat, tasty dwarva whose mind spends more time outside his head than in. _

Varel ripped his horn from his belt and blew two, short blasts from it. As if galvanized into action by the noise, three Deep Stalkers leapt at him. Varel threw his horn aside, brought up his left arm to shield himself slightly from their hungry teeth while he slashed wildly with his right. To his surprise, his blade caught one of them in mid-jump and cut through its neck.

He let out a scream he felt another Tezpadam's teeth pierce through metal and sink into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his arm beneath. He swung his left arm into the wall behind him, hearing the Tezpadam scream in pain as it got crushed between his armor and the rock.

The third monster landed on his chest and Varel felt himself falling backward. His head hit the stone behind him hard enough that white lights burst into existence at the edge of his vision. Dazed, Varel hardly felt it as the rest of the pack closed in one him. Some were nipping experimentally at his armor and others were spewing their acid spittle on him to melt through his metal shell.

All the while, the Matriarch hadn't moved from her spot, merely watching the show through cold, dark eyes.

Pain hammered into Varel as at least four maws found his flesh and doggedly tried to rip off chunks of his flesh. Screaming in pain and outrage, Varel lashed out at the Tezpadam; kicking out at them and swinging his sword wildly. His feet connected with some of monsters and he kicked them away. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, crawling away from the Deep Stalkers and their cruel, sharp teeth.

He rose on watery knees.

Of the many Tezpadams that had ambushed him, he had only killed three.

Varel didn't want to count the number of Tezpadams he would have to fight for fear that he would lose his nerve when he realized how outnumbered he was.

Instead Varel reached deep inside him, drawing on the pain of his many wounds, his anger at the Deep Stalkers for trying to kill him, his rage at the darkspawn themselves. He could feel his temper growing white-hot, leaving Varel no room for doubts or plans. There was nothing inside him now but the anger, the burning desire to _kill. _He raised his sword

And _screamed._

It was a yell of pure fury, devoid of the fear that had always been his constant companion. It was a harbinger of death and blood.

It was the battle cry of a dwarven berserker.

Still screaming, he ran straight into the pack, swinging his great sword as he did so, forcing them to scatter. He slammed his fist forcefully into the body of one of the spitters, momentarily stunning it then slicing its head off a second later. No longer did Varel feel the pain as the other spitters retaliated by sending gobs of acid at his armor. He swung his sword at the nearest Tezpadam and sliced it nearly in half. The dwarva waded through the pack, killing whatever he saw, oblivious to the many injuries he was sustaining.

He punched, he bit and kicked and sliced.

Even when he heard the other dwarvas, the ones who heard his distress call, join the fight he did not stop.

Finally his injuries forced him to cease fighting, for even when logic and thought had flown out the window, the anger of a berserker must bow to the limitations of the body. Varel's anger faded to give way to the crippling pain that pulsed across his body. Groaning, he leaned on his sword for support, surveying the carnage. Apart from the Matriarch the Tezpadam pack laid dead, their bodies strewn all over the cavern floor. Five other dwarvas had joined the fight, one of them, he recognized as Ralosh's brother, Kreel. The auburn-haired warrior nodded curtly at Varel.

"Good fight, Aeducan," he grunted. Varel didn't respond, for fear that he might vomit if he opened his mouth. Another guard, one with a thick black beard and scars crisscrossing his face hefted his axe and glared at the large Tezpadam.

"This thing giving you trouble, Varel? She's a big 'un," the guard spat at the monster's general direction but the Matriarch did not flinch.

It merely stood there, staring at the carcasses of its comrades with mournful eyes. Could these creatures feel sorrow? Varel wondered.

Kreel sighed and raised his sword. "The sooner we kill this thing the sooner—"

His words were stolen from his mouth when the Matriarch suddenly turned tail and ran, straight into the inky blackness of the tunnel.

It all happened so fast that for a few moments that dwarvas did not even react, then the veteran let out a howl and went after the Matriarch. The four other dwarvas followed, leaving only Varel to hobble along behind them.

"We shouldn't just go after them like that," he muttered to no one in particular. "Could be a trap, could be more of them hiding," But he had no choice but to follow his fellow warriors.

He gingerly tested his leg and then bit his lip as pain wracked his injured leg and thighs. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the pain—and the little part inside of him that was screaming like a baby dwarva—at the furthest reaches of his mind and ran.

The tunnels twisted and turned as he ran, until he could no longer remember which paths he took, aiming only to follow the paths that looked trampled by six pairs of feet. A stitch had started to develop in his chest and hip along with the other painful injuries in his body. He did not know how much time he had spent running…running.

It was highly probable that by the time Varel caught up with them, the Matriarch would be dead and one of the guards would have claimed her head as a trophy.

He was ripped from his thoughts when his fellows' shrieks rent the still air of the tunnel. Varel froze. Then, fueled with desperation and fear, he ran harder than ever. He rounded a bend and nearly tumbled over when the stench of death hit him. Something, just around the corner, smelled like meat and rot.

Varel's stomach roiled in protest as the stench grew stronger.

Vivid images flashed in front of his eyes, his comrades' guts ripped out of their stomach, their noble features smeared with their own blood, crawling away from some horrible monster.

Could a Matriarch have done this all by herself? To five fierce dwarvas?

In the back of his mind, a small voice whispered 'no'. Obviously not; but could Matriarch be smart enough to lead them to something stronger than her?

Something fierce enough to rip his companions to shreds?

_Yes._

Then, he heard the growls of the darkspawn, some laughing in that strange, alien way they did.

_Darkspawn. _It was the darkspawn that killed his friends, darkspawn that had ripped them to shreds, all five of them.

_If they had so easily killed these strong dwarven warriors, what would they do to Varel? _Hardly daring to breathe, Varel sheathed his sword as quietly as he could. He crawled toward the source of the stench. There was a very real fear now, that he would vomit and give his position away.

The growls grew louder and louder as he approached. No longer did it sound like the voice of a group. In fact it sounded more like…a swarm of those things.

He continued to the passageway and gasped when the tunnel just…ended. In front of him was a huge chasm, seemingly endless in its vastness. The others must have run straight over its edge, so intent were they on killing the Matriarch. And they fell…they fell…The dwarvas fell straight into the mass of darkspawn teeming at the bottom. From this distance, he could barely make out their shapes, illuminated only by a few torches that some of the darkspawn carried.

The creatures seemed to meld together into one, wriggling shadow, so far away were they from him. If they didn't look like darkness' spawn then, they certainly did now. None of the other dwarva would have stood a chance against such numbers. Varel prayed fervently to the Stone that the others had died as they hit the rock below. It would have been merciful, quick.

He prayed that none of them met their end at the claws of those monsters.

Then suddenly, the most awful noise tore at his ears. Varel covered them with his hands but that did not muffle it. It was a screech that seemed to come from somewhere deep within his head, a screech that only the sickest of minds would hear in his nightmares.

The darkspawn seemed to enjoy the noise, for their barking and growling grew louder, until it was almost too much to bear and the dwarva howled along with them, not in ecstasy like the darkspawn, but as vocalization of his suffering.

Abruptly, the shrieking stopped, the rabble of the darkspawn below died down. Varel withdrew his hands from his ears and wasn't surprised when he saw that his ears had bled at the awful noise. He dared peered at the edge of the chasm.

What he saw chilled his blood.

At the heart of the darkspawn mass was an enormous dragon. It was so big that Varel could see it clearly, despite the dim light and its distance. It didn't look like any dragon that Varel had seen in the Shaperate's records. This one had scales the color of blood that had been spilt long ago. The dragon's great wings were torn in places, as if long years of being inside the caverns had somehow corrupted it.

Sick as the thought is, Varel's heart broke at the sight of the dragon. Perhaps once it had been beautiful, before some darkness had taken hold of it and made it into what it was now.

The dragon reared on its hind legs and blew fire from its maw.

Black fire. As black as the darkness that enveloped the tunnels where the dwarvas had made their home. The darkspawn roared in approval and Varel could hear the sound of weapons banging against shields.

It was then that the implications of what he saw hit him with the force of a rampaging Bronto. The dwarva had long believed that the kingdoms would not withstand the kind of war it was waging with the darkspawn now. Yes, they might hold for a few more decades but eventually they would fall.

Now, against these numbers, they would be lucky to survive the year.

**[1]: **Forgot to tell you, at the start of all this, the way of naming a hundred an 'Age' has not been invented yet, the people just stuck to T.E. as a way of telling the years

**[2]: **You might be wondering why I type in 'dwarva' instead of dwarf. 'Dwarva' is what dwarves call themselves. 'Dwarf/dwarves' is what humans call them. It drove me mad having to remember to type in dwarva instead of dwarf. :P

**[3]: **A dwarven saying lifted from the Codex, the whole thing goes _"A fool trusts his eyes. A wise man fears every rock is a deepstalker"_

**[4]: **Dwarven terminology for 'deepstalker'

There you have it! :) Chapter 3. I really hope you enjoyed. I would love some feedback! Have a nice day! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Heya, guys! I'm sorry that this one took so long to update. I recently got a hold of my brother's copy of Diablo III and playing it sort of diverted me from writing XDDDD No worries though, I'm done playing it now and am just playing casual games to focus on my writing. I also want to apologize for this chapter being so short but I wanted to finish and upload it today since I might become busy next week and I wanted to show you guys I'm not dead. :P  
**

**I hope you enjoy! :)  
**

**The Knight Who Lost**

**888 T.E.**

Peakside **[1]** was a ghost town. Even from a distance, the destruction had been evident: tongues of fire leaped high into the air as it chewed the wooden walls of the dwellings in Peakside, spewing tendrils of smoke that curled upward into the heavens.

For a minute or two, just before they disappear, they seemed to spell out my name; a condemnation, an accusation, a brand set upon the sky for all of Thedas to see.

_This is the name of the knight who failed you: _Malcolm.

_This is the name of the knight who should have been here to prevent all this: _Malcolm.

Here is the name of the man who failed you. No less than three weeks ago, in response to a messenger's plea for help, King Rickon Theirein had given me the task to take one hundred soldiers to the small town of Peakside and give them aid from whatever had been attacking them.

The messenger had been vague as to what exactly had been threatening the town, saying only that they came at night in great numbers.

I had expected bandits, ones who were too cowardly to attack them in broad daylight, striking only when there was darkness to cover them. I did not expect my soldiers and I to find such destruction. Shame bubbled at the pit of my stomach at the sight of the desiccated village, knowing full well that I could have prevented all this had I encouraged the troops to move faster.

These people, this village had been my responsibility and it was through my actions that they were dead.

Swallowing a wave of nausea I turned to the hundred something men and women who were watching the burning town with wide eyes. I divided them into five teams and gave them specific instructions as to what to do.

"Put out the fires, search for survivors and look for any clues as to who would do this," I told them. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I added. "And treat the dead with respect. We shall bury them later," Their silent assent of my words served only to inflame my guilt. How could they trust me when, already I had failed Peakside?

Who's to say I wouldn't fail them?

But my team had already begun their search of the town. Jan, a soldier who had served the crown for nearly as long as I have, approached me and said in a low tone.

"What in the Maker's name happened here, Malcolm?"

"Bandits most likely," My reply came through gritted teeth.

"Don't think they'll still be lurking around?" Jan cast around nervously, as if a bandit could still be hiding among the wreckage.

"Doubt it," I said curtly. "From what the messenger said, the cowards only attacked at night. If they didn't have the guts to face a town of farmers in broad daylight, I don't think they'd want to take their chances with a hundred fully armed soldiers,"

Jan's face flushed with embarrassment at this. "Er…right. Didn't think of that Malcolm,"

I didn't reply but instead walked into the town and examined the ruins. The stench hit me almost immediately and I had to fight to keep myself from vomiting out the contents of my stomach.

The whole town smelled of death, the scent of rotting corpses and burning wood hung heavily in the air, like some morbid perfume. And…there was also something else, something I couldn't put a name to. It was so faint, more like the ghost of a scent than the actual thing and yet, I could feel its effect on me. The scent made me feel dirty, as if something evil had invaded my body.

I ignored the feeling and instead committed myself to studying what was left of Peakside. The bandits had put every house to the torch, perhaps setting fire to their rooftops first to flush out the families hiding inside. They had also slaughtered the animals and burned the fields, maybe to starve any possible survivors. Or perhaps to make the town uninhabitable after they had finished with it.

If they had sowed the soil with salt, they couldn't have done a better job.

But what would bandits want with a small town like this? Bastards like them hardly ever thought of anything else but the glitter of gold and the people of Peakside weren't likely to own anything that might interest them. It didn't make any sense.

Most of my soldiers were committed to arranging the dead bodies in lines so that they could be buries later, treating each of them with respect. My heart twisted at the sight of them and I prayed that the Makerwould find it in His heart to give them a place at his side.

I watched carefully to see that none of the corpses were looted, although I knew that the farmers had nothing more than the tunics on their backs, it still never hurt to be sure.

The thought of the dead lying so helpless while cold, unconcerned hands stripped them of their belongings, their dignity sickened me.

But my soldiers knew me well enough not to try any of it and I was proud of them. I finished my sweep of the village and with a sigh, moved to help the others arrange the dead.

It took us until midday to find and move the dead to the center of the town; we could have finished sooner but some of the others had tender stomachs and had begged me to allow them to set up camp instead, a fair distance from Peakside so the smell would not reach us at night.

I had granted their wish and kept on moving the bodies. I figured that we should make a pyre for all of them.

_If they died as filth, then at least let them go as royalty. _I thought to myself.

Finally, when we had finished, I stood up at stretched my abused muscles.

Most of the others will milling about, some sharing their midday meal, others simply talking.

Jan approached me with a grimace.

"Terrible, isn't it, Malcolm? Didn't think that any bandit would be able to do this…" he drank deep from his skin of barley-water **[2] **as if the incident left a bad taste in his mouth. He hesitated then handed it to me.

"Might've been nicer if it was ale," he muttered.

"You're on duty," I said sternly but Jan only smiled. He had been my friend for a long, long time and he was used to my 'eccentricities' as he called them.

As I drank, I remembered that strange scent that I had smelled when I first entered the town. I am not exaggerating when I say that it felt…evil. When I asked the other soldier about this he scowled. "Felt it too, did you? It made my knees buckle,"

"But is it familiar to you?" I asked. Perhaps it was some kind of new weapons or explosives that that the bandits had used. If it was, the king needed to be informed and the more information I had when I gave my report, the better.

Jan shrugged, making his armor rattle. "It reminds me of my mother dying from sickness when I was twelve. The whole house smelled like death, I was surprised we didn't attract flies,"

"I plan on making a pyre for them," I told him. Jan didn't bat an eye but said,

"The others aren't going to like that; that kind of treatment is for usually reserved for royalty,"

"Then let them complain to me," The burning of corpses itself was not reserved for royalty; you see it all the time, especially during a plague. Corpses piled one over the other carelessly to create a mound of death, then set aflame. The stench of burning flesh would settle over the place for hours but it was a practical approach, getting rid of a hundred or so bodies at once while making sure that those that had died from the disease did not pass it on to the living. But constructing a pyre took time and effort, something that most villagers lacked.

When one of the royal families dies, it was a grand thing indeed. The wood that was going to be used for the burning was taken only from the grandest of trees and polished to a deep luster. Several scented herbs and the deceased most prized possessions were burned with the corpse.

I could not promise these people anything as luxurious as that, but I will try to give them the best one that I can.

"We can use some of the wood from the houses," I insisted.

"And herbs from the forest?" Jan suggested. Then he smirked. "Who's going to pray over them, eh, Malcolm? None of us is what you'd call devout,"

Typically, when a royal corpse is burned, a priest of the deceased's religion would pray loudly beside the flames while a small group of devotees of the same religion sang to their professed god. **[3]**

I didn't answer but instead stopped down to study the bodies. I had learned hours before that it was better if I breathed through my mouth but it seemed to me that I could smell the stench nonetheless.

I wanted to remember their faces, their wounds, I wanted to keep them fresh in my memory and keep them alive long after they had passed.

_A man with a coarse black beard that made him look like a bear…_

_A boy that was no more than five summers old, dead from the red smile on his throat…_

_A wizened old man with enough scars on his face to account to a life of cruelty…_

_A baker with his stomach ripped open and his viscera pulled out. Someone had gently placed it back in._

_A baby boy that looked like he could have been sleeping except for the blood caking his forehead…_

Suddenly, I stopped taking tallies and slowly stood up, a horrible idea beginning to dawn on me. Chills ran up and down my spine. I turned to Jan who was studying the cadavers with a critical eye.

"Jan," I said and I was surprised by how hoarse my voice sounded. "Jan..."

My friend looked up from the gruesome sight and started when he saw my face. "Maker's Breath, Malcolm! You look like you've seen a spirit, what's wrong,"

I waved an impatient hand over to the corpses. "Notice something wrong, Jan?" I asked. Jan surveyed the carnage, then I watched as the color slowly began to drain from his face.

His voice trembled when he spoke. "Malcolm, these are all the corpses we found right?" I nodded.

"Then…then…_where are the women?_"

He was right. Every cadaver we had picked up was male, something that I did not pick up on until now.

The entire female population of Peakside was missing.

-**Entry taken ****f****rom the journal of Malcolm Cousland**

**[1] I'm terrible with making up names for fictional places so I used a name generator for this one XDDD**

**[2] I realize now in our modern times that ****barley water is being used as a British soft drink but in medieval times, barley water was made and drank by poorer peasants who can't afford wheat (it was far too expensive for personal use back then) and had to make do with lesser grains and used every part of their harvest to cut down on wastage. It's usually sweetened with honey and, when allowed to ferment, turns to ale. So think of it as a weak form of liquor XDD**

**Just a fun fact. Thought you might like it ;)  
**

**[3] Since this was the ancient times, this was also before the Chantry had firmly established itself as a major religious organization and believers of the Maker were fewer back then than they are in modern-day Thedas. I assume that other gods have been more numerous back then.  
**

**I'll try to put up the next chapter some time next or next next week if I don't get too busy. :) I'm trying to establish this habit of waking up at 5 a.m. every morning to write for a good 2 hours before I go to class so I might be faster in posting new chapters. No guarantees though. :)**

**Feedback would always be welcome :) I hope you enjoyed it! Have a nice day ahead of you! :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Part 1

**This chapter has two parts, one told by Malcolm and the other told by Varel. **

**The Dwarven Kingdom Revisited**

**888 T.E.**

In his hands he holds a thick sheaf of vellum. They are filled with roughly sketched maps of the Deep Roads and hastily scribbled sentences that he thinks would be sufficient ammunition against the Assembly.

In his hands, he holds what might be Orzammar's salvation. Or so he believes.

It had nearly been a year ago when the dwarva came stumbling back into his great city with his chainmail barely holding together and his breeches stained with his own piss, babbling about an army of darkspawn that he had seen in the tunnels.

The dwarva had expected his people to believe him, had expected the king and the Assembly to make plans for war, fortify their walls and send urgent missives to the other surviving kingdoms pleading for their aid. But it was not what Varel had gotten, what he got were fake, sympathetic smiles to his face and rumours about how the dwarva's mind had snapped during the time he had spent in the tunnels to his back. What he got was a dismissal from guard duty until, as the rest of the Warrior caste had put it 'he was of sound mind and body' again. Not that Varel could blame them, in the darkness of the Deep Roads where the darkspawn made their home; sometimes the only thing that stood between you and a monster's jaws was the sword of your partner. And if that partner happened too be busy fighting imaginary monsters instead of real ones, then death was almost a certainty.

There was no room for unreliable dwarvas in the Deep Roads, this Varel could understand. Still, it did not make hurt any less, knowing that he was being persecuted for telling the truth. He _knew _what he saw in those tunnels were real, it was simply too horrible not to be.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see other dwarva of the Noble caste pointing at him and snickering behind their hands. He pointedly ignored them and instead focused on the words in front him. His hands were shaking.

Ever since he had been forced into inactivity by his fellow warriors, he had been steadily working on plans that might possibly foil the oncoming invasion of the darkspawn and their leader. Maps of the tunnels that he had forced out of his memory onto dried nug's skin** [1]**, exit routes that the non-Warrior caste might use should their city be sacked, strategically hidden caches of food that survivors could eat when the worst came to the worst...Varel had it all planned out.

Now all he had to do was _make _the Assembly see his side. He needed them to see him as more than just a dwarva who has taken too many knocks to the head.

Varel knew that that was how most of his community saw him now: a demented, possibly dangerous warrior whose only foes existed in the far reaches of his mind.

An army of those monsters? Ridiculous! If such vast numbers of them did exist, then the dwarven cities would be long gone by now.

The injustice of it rankled him. But if it meant that he would be able to save his beautiful city in the end, Varel would endure any number of jests and insults. Let the nobles point and laugh; he did not need their vote anyway. It was the _Assembly _that mattered. He smoothed out the vellum, in his hands, murmuring his speech softly to himself.

The dwarvas that guarded the vast stone door of the Chamber exchanged glances of incredulity as they watched him. Varel knew them, young soldiers he had seen around the barracks before he had been kicked out. He used to laugh and tease the rookies like all the other warriors back when he had been one.

His heart ached painfully at the thought. True, he had never been the best fighter or even the courageous but being given a sword and being told to defend his city, waking up every day and knowing he was doing something that mattered, Varel felt at peace. When he could still be recognized as part of his caste, Varel had a sense of purpose, one that he sorely missed now. Wielding a quill was not as satisfying as wielding a sword and ink was a poor substitute for the blood of a foe drying on a weapon. The dwarva shook his head in a sudden, violent movement. He could not afford to let his mind wander. Orzammar was at stake.

He tried to concentrate on his speech but the sounds of the snickering of those wretched nobles kept distracting him every time. Varel was not so deaf that he could not hear what they were saying.

"_An army of monsters he says..."_

"_Probably killed the other guards...that's what he did," _

"_...dragon, be doing underground?"_

"This isn't the Diamond Quarter to be gossiping about like a bunch of merchants' wives!"**[2]** Varel snapped at two of the sniggering sons of nugs**[3]**, finally unable to play deaf any longer.

Instead of cringing at the sound of Varel's exclamation, both of them stared loftily at Varel, as if he had been the one ridiculing a fellow dwarva.

"And this isn't Dust Town to be spinning away wild tales for people who have nothing better to do," Noble Number 1 said, his voice chillingly sweet as he said it. "The Assembly has better things to do than listen to half-mad tales brought on by the Taint,"

Something inside Varel, something that must have been waiting just to hear these words reared its ugly head and injected a white-hot poison straight in his veins. Here, _here_ was what his own people have been saying against him for a year. Here is what every man, woman and child has thought of him when all he ever wanted was to help Orzammar. Suddenly, the calm front that he had put up for himself came crashing down and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the dwarva's skinny little neck, choke him, throttle him, keep squeezing until his face turns black. Varel wanted to make him feel just a tiny bit of the terror he had felt when he had seen the darkspawn army. **[3]**

None of these idiots knew real fear. The vellum he had been cradling like a first born child suddenly crumpled in his hands.

Ancestors damn his plans!

He threw the ball so hard at the Ancestor-forsaken fool that he let out a squeal of pain, despite the fact that it was very light.

Varel thought he sounded like a nug up for slaughter.

"The Taint! You Stone-blind idiot, is that what you think this is? Is it? You think what I saw down there was because of some darkspawn-fever?" he screamed so loudly that his voice bounded off the stone walls of the antechamber, magnifying it tenfold. The nobles let out a girlish whimper.

One of the guards, a handsome, blonde dwarva moved out of his post to get in between Varel and the terrified nobles. "That's enough, Varel," he said quietly, placing a hand on the ex-warrior's shoulder. "Let the Assembly decide on this matter," He nodded at the aristocrats in an indication that they should clear out. The royals left shivering and sniffling like a chastised six-year-old dwarva.

_Cowards! _Varel thought furiously. The guard, who Varel now recognized as a shield-user called Hern picked up Varel's sheaf and gently smoothed it out on the stone floor. The damage was done, however and the nug's skin showed visible signs of abuse. Hern handed it back to Varel, who flushed at the evidence of his loss of control.

"Just do what you came to do, warrior," the dwarva said. "Don't listen to any of them,"

Varel was stunned at what was the first show of encouragement that he had gotten ever since he embarked on this mad quest. Even his own parents gave him up as mad. His father had pleaded with him, in tears, to get back to his life and not disgrace their family. Gerdra Aeducan, on the other hand, had forced him to drink various concoctions that ran the gamut from dried nug droppings to lyrium dust mixed with deep mushrooms, believing them to be the cure for her son's madness. Varel's throat tightened as he looked at this young dwarva who was willing to extend a kind word to a crazy old fighter.

"Y-you believe me?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe.

Hern nodded. "They aren't the ones who are out there every day, Varel, they don't know what it's like," He winked at his fellow dwarva. "We do, though,"

The door of the Assembly let out a great groan as it swung open. An old scribe, whose back was bent with age, came out holding a thick piece of vellum. He spoke in a rickety voice that brings to mind the halls of the Shaperate, the building that was already old when one had been young.

"The Assembly will now see Varel Aeducan,"

He felt his knees turn to water. This was the moment that he had been waiting for. All his days of preparing was leading up to this. Orzammar's fate hangs in the balance.

What if he failed?

Hern squeezed Varel's shoulder in a gesture of support and this action made Varel feel a little bit more confident. With the crumpled sheets clutched tightly in his shaking hands, the dwarva made his way to the Chamber where he would inevitable save—or damn his beloved city.

The Assembly is made up of a group of dwarvas so normal-looking that it would surprise you to know that they hold the power over the rest of your life. Varel was surprised. This was his first time to ever see the members of the Assembly. Somehow, he had expected them to appear grander than the non-Assembly dwarva. He had anticipated their staves to be made of gold, at the very least. Where were the pure-white beards that were so long they scraped the floor as the members moved?

The eyes so full of wisdom that they seemed to be able to stare straight into eternity?

Instead, all he got was a bunch of dwarvas who looked not at all special. In fact, they looked bored, as if whatever Varel had to say was of no importance to them. Even the king did not look so kingly. **[4]**

_But it is important! _A small voice cried inside him. _You _must _make them listen, Varel! _You must!

"The Assembly is now in order to hear the reports of Varel Aeducan of the Warrior Caste," one of them said in a tone that clearly stated his indifference. All twenty-four of the members' eyes focused on him.

The dwarva's throat felt dry. Varel had to fight so that his legs wouldn't collapse underneath him. The weight of those eyes seemed like a very real thing, one that settled on top of his shoulders and made him want to bow down before them. But he managed to steel his nerves and begin his speech. He cleared his throat.

"For years, the Warrior caste have battled the darkspawn—"

"Excuse me," a woman's voice broke in. "What did you say?" Varel blinked, barely two seconds in his speech and he's been interrupted already!

"Yes?"

"What did you say? 'Darkspawn'? What does that mean?"

Varel swallowed. He had forgotten that he was the only one who called them that.

"It's w-what I call them," he managed to stammer out. At this, the room erupted in whispers from the members and the woman who asked the question smirked at him.

"Oh, I see. You gave them _names,_" she said.

"N-no! That's not what I meant! I only meant that—"

"Oh we know _exactly _what you mean, Warrior Aeducan. Carry on,"

Pushing aside, a fresh wave of annoyance, Varel did as he was told.

"We do this because we have always known that the tide of monsters that have tried to overtake us is not limitless, that there will be a day when they no longer have enough of themselves to throw at us," Varel held up his vellum as he spoke.

"And that is absolutely correct,"

"If that assumption is correct then what are you doing here?"

"Let me finish—and that assumption is correct, there _will _come a day when there are no longer enough darkspawn to try and storm the gates of Orzammar. But on that day, there will be no dwarvas either,"

Glares and angry mutterings followed this statement and he knew exactly why. By saying this, he would be telling them what the dwarvas feared the most: an army of darkspawn so vast they can wipe out the kingdom. It was better to most of the dwarven community to think of Varel as a liar than dream of waves of monsters out to storm their gates. But this was the _Assembly, _he had to make them believe, face the truth. He plowed on despite the burning stares.

"I have seen a vast army of darkspawn," The king held up his hand and Varel felt silent. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he waited for the most powerful dwarva in Orzammar to speak.

"Can you tell me exactly what you saw in the Deep Roads?"

Yes! This was what Varel had been waiting for! He had the king's ear! The dwarva clenched his fists in an effort to stop them from shaking. "I-I saw a great chasm, one that stretched as far as I could see. At the bottom of it, were thousands no, hundreds of thousands of darkspawn. All of them were screaming and yelling and waving their weapons about. At the top of the great pit, I saw a dragon, whose scales were the colour of dried blood," At this, one of the members couldn't help but let out a large guffaw and the sound was soon followed by the snickers of the whole Assembly. Like before, the sounds bounced off the Chamber and were magnified by hundredfold, louder and louder until Varel thought that their screeching would rend his ears.

He tries not to think about how much they sounded like the dragon's scream, still so fresh in his memory.

With a sinking heart, Varel realized what was happening. "You don't believe me," he whispered through numb lips. His accusation however was lost to the raucous noise of what used to be his only hope laughing themselves silly.

"You never did,"

More laughter. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. Then, just as quickly, its dark wave subsided, only to be taken over by another tide, this one hotter, larger filling every fibre of his being. It pushed away his fear, his doubts, his misery; wanting to be the only emotion that beat steadily in his heart.

He had forgotten what it was like to feel a berserker's rage overcome him. Anger did not cloud his judgement but instead, made it clearer than ever, as if the path to how he must save Orzammar was being paved out before him.

In one smooth motion, he tossed his sheaf of vellum at the members' feet.

The time for words was long past. The laughter died down quickly. Such a blatant display of disrespect was not an everyday occurrence. Then, Varel grabbed the dagger he had always kept in his hip belt—shocked gasps and cries of fear from the Assembly only served to fuel his rage—and he grabbed his beard and in one, swift motion, cut it off with his dirk. This, he threw at the Assembly's feet.

No one spoke.

He glared at each and every one of them, careful to make eye contact, careful to burn their faces in his mind.

"If you, who are supposed to be the wisest dwarvas in Orzammar, are too stupid to see the bronto whilst it is charging straight at you, then there is no hope to be had for this great city," he yelled at them, anger making his voice strong.

"I came to you in need, and what did you give me? Snide comments and laughter! Woe is the day that you Stone-blind fools are too soft in the head to take your people seriously! Woe is the day that the king who is supposed to listen to his every subject's need only laughs at him!"

The king flinched at these words. But Varel was too angry to care.

"Woe is this day! When the gates of Orzammar are opened by forced, when every woman has been raped, every child enslaved and every man laid low; when the statues of the Paragons have been defiled and the nobles are laid in graves alongside the casteless...REMEMBER ME!" he boomed.

"Remember what I said! Remember that on this day, I warned you and you turned me away! Remember now that I will take my warning to where it will be appreciated and Ancestors willing, they will send help here when all hope is gone,"

He paused for effect.

"Remember that I, Varel Aeducan of the Warrior Caste, chose the surface rather than suffer idiots who lost their Stone-sense!"

And the room erupted into clamour.

**[1] **In real life, vellum is made out of calves' skin but I figured that nug's skin would be suitable substitute.

**[2]** Probably the dwarven equivalent of 'gossiping like a fish wife'

**[3]** This made me laugh. No surprises there when you figure out what it translates to at the surface.

**[4]** I figured that the king would be given a position in the Assembly seeing that it is their vote that makes big decisions.

**All right, a notification for you, dear readers (if I have any). I won't be able to update in a few weeks. My midterms are coming up and I really have to do well in my International Politics subject :( (bleh :P I hate politics, who likes that crap, really?) so I'll be focusing on my studies a bit. Probably a month before I get to update again. **

**In the meantime, reviews give me a happy! So one would be nice:)**

**You have a nice day now!:)  
**


	6. Chapter 5: Part 2

**All right! I'm back to annoy you all again! But, before you read, a bit of info. Regarding my posting schedule. Right, I really am making an effort to post every two weeks/every week but see…I don't really have a 24/7 connection to the 'Net. My brother recently bought us a Wi-Fi modem but is, apparently an idiot when it comes to using it, because it hardly gets used at all. Most days he would take the internet plug and connect it to his own computer, telling me that he needs fast internet connection. Weeks can go by with me not even getting a minute on the 'Net. (insert First World Problems meme here) XD**

**Which…I don't know, sort of defeats the purpose of even getting the damn Wi-Fi modem in the first place.  
XD**

**Anee-way, now that I've practically told you my life story, on with **_**Malcolm's **_**short story!**

**Killer of Killers**

**888 T.E.**

Slaves.

Whores.

Playthings.

The women of Peakside could have been turned into any of these things. It was obvious that they had not been dragged off to be killed like the men. If that was the only reason, then why bother taking them, instead of killing them right then and there, inside the town?

What was happening to them now, I wonder? As my friends and companions were slept calmly inside their tents, assured by the fact that ten of our number were keeping watch, did they sleep on the cold, hard ground with the eyes of some bandit watching them?

How many of them have been forced down on the earth by some man who practically reeked of lust and violence?

I am assaulted by a sudden, vivid vision of some pretty young thing being groped and humiliated by a faceless man who held a blade to her neck, whispering threats in the shell of her ear. These visions have not left me alone for a second, not since we discovered that the women of Peakside were missing; I tried hard not to think about how the women in my visions looked so much like the sisters I left behind in Denerim.

I shook my head violently, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. This was not the time to lose my head. I forced my thoughts back to the forest we were in, sternly reminding myself that if the brigands were hiding out here, I would lose my head if I was not paying attention. The scouts that I have dispatched earlier for reconnaissance had confirmed that there were signs that they had moved across the forest encompassing Peakside.

Although none of them seemed to find anything more substantial than trampled paths and broken twigs. Because both tracking and scouting had never been my strong points, I could not help but attach some near-superstitious qualities to it. I had allowed myself to believe that the scouts would come back with news of a hideout or a caravan hidden deep within the forest. All of the reports, however, had disappointed me. Inwardly, though, I cursed myself for allowing such child-like beliefs.

A sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh made me turn around. Jan was rubbing the back of his neck with a pained expression. "Maker-damned mosquitoes," he said sheepishly. "I swear to you Malcolm, I saw one just seconds ago that was as large as a pigeon," At the sound of his voice, our scout, a young rookie named Aera placed a finger to her lips to indicate a desire for silence. Jan mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key, a gesture that he clearly thought was amusing but which only earned a glare from her. Aera turned to look at me, indicating the knee-high grass she had been studying moments before.

I looked at it closely, trying to see what she saw. After several moments, I gave up and shook my head at her. Aera seemed disappointed, like an instructor whose favourite student didn't give her the correct answer—never mind that I was at least a good five years older than her.

"What?" I murmured.

"Look at the way the grass is flattened," she said. Jan inched closer to us and stared at it for a long while, his eyebrows forming a dark slash across his forehead in concentration. This doesn't surprise me, he was better at tracking than I was.

"Someone was being chased, most likely one of the girls," he declared. Aera nodded in appreciation. I blinked, feeling my chest beginning to constrict. _No. No. No. _

"Chased, not being dragged?"

"Looks like it, if one of the girls was being dragged the dents on the soil would have been much deeper. When being hauled, especially by a much larger body, people tend to dig their heels or fingers in the ground to slow down their captor," the scout explained, her voice barely above a whisper. I clenched my hands into fists, feeling my nails dig into my palms.

_No. No. No!_

Frightened people do not make very good escapees, they run in straight lines making them good targets, they scream for help making them easier to find.

If one of the girls _did _run, there was a great likelihood that she was shot down by arrows or killed in front of the others as an example. _In front of the others. _

That was another thing: I sent at least five people to scout five different areas and they all came back with reports of signs of the bandits, everything from broken twigs to bits of blood coating the trees' bark. It would take a very large group of people to massacre a town, even a small one like Peakside, wouldn't it make more sense if they went away in one direction? It would have been easier to subdue their captives as well.

What made them decide to split up? A final question ran through my head, one that I asked both of my companions.

"How did you know that it was one of the girls who was running? Couldn't it have been one of those bastards? Perhaps he was the one being chased…"

"By what? A wild boar?" Jan's lip curled. "You _would _like that, Malcolm, wouldn't you?"

"Just answer the question,"

"The grass is trampled very finely, the person who was running was taking short strides, the way a person with short legs does. Either it was a girl or a very short man. I'm saying it was a girl, I… probably very young," Jan's face twisted in grief.

A child. A child who broke away from her captor and ran, screaming for her parents, for the Maker, for rescuers that came too late.

I prayed to whatever gods might be listening that she was safe.

Aera was already walking away, her sharp eyes hunting for more clues. I moved to follow her.

Then stopped. I sniffed the air cautiously, causing Jan to look at me curiously.

"I hope that's not me you're smelling," he muttered. I ignored him and continued to inhale deeply. A strange scent had pervaded the air, it was vaguely familiar.

Then my mind snapped back to that same strange smell I encountered yesterday, as I stood amidst the ruin of Peakside. The ghost of a scent rather than the actual thing; that same effect that made me feel as if it was getting inside my bloodstream, poisoning my insides.

I shuddered involuntarily. This time, though, the smell was stronger and it reminded me, more than anything of the smell of the rotting corpses we had burned yesterday. My companions had also started sniffing the air in response to my reaction. The look of revulsion on their faces was enough to tell me that we were of the same mind.

"What in the Maker's name smells that bad?" Jan exclaimed.

"Rotting corpse, most likely the girl's," Aera answered, her face, for the first time, betraying a hint of sadness. However, I found myself disagreeing with her. I have been in battle before and I have seen a corpse that had festered so much its features had become indistinguishable, the stench was horrific but it didn't feel as evil as the one that was permeating the air now.

"Can you find the source?" I asked her, knowing full well that she could. She shot me an offended look and started to walk again, as if to say that my question did not even merit a legitimate response.

As we moved deeper into the forest, the stench became worse and more pronounced, finally forcing us to stop when Jan emptied his stomach on a nearby bushel.

I turned away, knowing that he was most likely mortified by the incident but our other companion didn't even bother to hide her amusement. I suppose that it was her way of getting back at the soldier for teasing her so many times about being too small to handle a big job. My friend let out a pitiful groan as he heaved again, eliciting a surprisingly girlish giggle from our scout.

"Go ahead, laugh at my pain," Jan grumbled, washing his mouth out with water from his canteen.

"Hurry up," I couldn't help blurting out impatiently. Every moment we delayed was another moment that the women were in those bastards clutches. I couldn't afford to stop, even if it was to soothe Jan. Both of my companions jumped at the harshness of my tone and exchanged guilty looks. Jan swallowed his nausea and took a few, staggering steps toward Aera, motioning for her to continue her lead. My stomach gave a guilty lurch as I saw how green his face was and his swaying gait. A small part of my mind wanted to call for a stop, for just a few minutes, but I quashed that part mercilessly.

Jan will survive.

The women, on the hand, might not. Every second we delayed was another second that those women were being tormented by those brigands. I wanted to get moving as soon as possible, Jan however, hovered back to his bush, and examined it closely.

"Jan, we don't have time to examine your morning meal, we have to go," Aera chided. Jan made a motion for us to keep quiet and started examining the places that we have passed, the barks of the trees, the broken twigs and finally, kneeling on the grass to inspect it closely.

"Aera," he said his voice hitching. "Do you know what this black stuff is?" He pointed to some black slime that was imprinted on the forest floor that I thought was mud that fell off the girl's boots. Aera apparently felt the same, for she shrugged and responded. "Tar most likely or loam," But Jan shook his head.

"It doesn't look like mud…" he said doubtfully. "It seems more liquid than solid, probably fell from the girl's dress rather than her boots. He touched the slime and rubbed it between his fingers, a look of distaste on his face.

Finally he stood up. "It's blood," he said flatly. I felt the small hairs on the back of neck stand on the end. Despite my confidence in my friends tracking abilities, I still found myself doubtful. When blood dries, it does not look like slime or goo, all three of us knew it. Neither does it adopt that kind of blackish hue, dried blood takes on a rust-red colour. But still, I could not simply dismiss Jan's assumption. I was mulling over how to ask this without making it seem like I doubted his skills. Fortunately, I was saved from this uncomfortable situation by Aera.

"Why do you think that it is blood?" she asked. "It looks nothing like it. Most likely it's dirt or mud,"

"It hasn't rained in three days, there's little chance of her stepping on mud," Jan retorted. "I'm sure it's blood,"

"But how do you know?" I persisted. If a trained scout was questioning him, I saw no reason why I could not, but Jan simply shook his head and straightened up.

"Hardly my fault that both of you don't possess my amazing skills," His lip curled but his eyes remained tense, I decided not to press the point, however.

"All right, let's say that it is blood, so the girl was shot?" Aera sounded irritable, most likely due to the slight to her skills. "A target that was constantly moving away at intermediate speed, most likely screaming; probably breaking the archer's concentration, still kept a steady enough hand to fire. Whoever the archer is, he or she is experienced," She glanced anxiously at me, as if she wanted to prove that she had as much skill as the other did. I chose not to say anything, partly because I still had doubts about whether or not the slime we found was blood or not. If someone, especially a girl from a village was shot with an arrow, the forest floor would be spattered in blood, instead of just the droplets we found.

She would have been in great pain, her movements would have been more erratic instead of running in a straight line.

Armour and padding soaks up far more blood than a farmer's tunic.

A soldier who is trained in the battlefield would be able to ignore the pain and keep running.

A small soldier, perhaps? A dwarf? Was it possible that we were fighting against dwarven bandits? Perhaps a small girl had not broken away but there had been a disagreement of sorts.

That would explain why the blood didn't look like a human's, I've never seen a dwarf's blood before, so it was possible that the black slime was theirs.

I cursed myself bitterly. What had seemed pragmatic earlier now felt like an incredibly stupid mistake. I had sent out my men in three-people teams, so that sneaking around would be easier, but it would also make us susceptible to an ambush. Against common human bandits, I was more than sure that all three of us could take on more than our fair share. But against dwarves…I've heard stories how they were still able to cut down a sea of men even through fatal wounds.

"Aera, go back to camp," I ordered brusquely. "Alert the others, tell Unel to get the others ready for battle," The scout jumped and whirled around to face me, her brown eyes wide with terror.

"You're not believing Jan, do you?" she cried shrilly. "You think he's a better tracker than me? Am I to be demoted?"

I stifled the insane urge to cover her mouth with my hand. "Shut _up_," I hissed. "Go. Now."

She was a good soldier, for despite her feelings she slunk away from us, her sandaled feet hardly making any noise against the dried undergrowth of the forest.

Carefully, trying to make as little noise as I could, I slowly drew my sword from its sheath and motioned for Jan to do the same. I wanted to draw my shield from my back as well, but its sheen would probably give our position away.

Human bandits, I've dealt with before but dwarven ones were a new thing, I had no idea how to fight them, what would be the best way to deal with them, their methods of attack.

The situation has changed. Nervously, I pulled at my mail **[1] **and the sound of its rings clinking gently against each other did little to comfort me. It wouldn't hold well against arrows or blunt weapons.** [2] **It would not hold. Period.

I tried to communicate all of this to Jan with as little words as possible, employing various hand gestures and body that, in another situation would have looked ridiculous but would do in a pinch.

Despite the fact that we could very well die here because of my blind idiocy, I could feel my heart pounding in excitement, the thrill of an impending battle thundering in my veins. Even back in the days of our training, I have never been much of a scout or a tracker or a hunter. What I am, is a warrior. I could already feel my instincts beginning to take over, my senses opening up to take in the minutest details of the forest.

That rotting-corpse smell seemed stronger than ever and my stomach immediately made its desire to follow Jan's example known.

The forest was alive with noises, filled with the rustling of leaves and breaking twigs, any of these noises could belong to a dwarven warrior.. Jan and I continued to creep cautiously along the undergrowth, following the stench; plants of all kinds snagging against our leather boots, as if they, too had sinister motives.

"Be careful," Jan whispered beneath his breath.

A stupid declaration, if anything. Every shadow seemed to be an enemy waiting to pounce on us. Every breath I took felt like it would be my last.

As we moved, the path that the person had taken became more and more evident, until even I could see it. Black blood coated the blades of the plants, imprints of boots embedded clearly on the soil.

We followed, quietly, quietly, both of us not even sure anymore what we expected to find. We finally reached a clearing and there, we saw, not six feet from us, was a small body slumped on the ground. A cloud of flies buzzed above it but it was obvious that none of the carrion-eaters have gotten to it.

"Examine it, I'll cover you," I told Jan. He was better at it than I. My friend nodded, sheathed his weapon as I gripped mine more tightly.

He moved swiftly to the cadaver. The flies whirred angrily at the warrior's interference but dispersed as soon as he came near.

Instantly, Jan's body stiffened when he caught sight of the corpse. His whole body started shaking, as if he had been subjected to great cold. He took a step back, stumbled, fell on the ground, the sound of his armour hitting the earth jarringly loud.

He opened his mouth wide.

And _screamed. _A scream so filled with terror that it created frost in the very marrow of my bones. I ran to him. "Jan, get a _hold _of yourself, what is wrong!" I snapped, trying to muffle his scream with a hand shoved before his gaping lips.

Any moment now, those dwarves would be upon us, drawn to us by his keening.

But he continued screaming so I did what I usually do whenever a rookie would take leave of his senses and give in to pure, blind terror. I punched him across the face, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground.

At least the screaming stopped. My friend was breathing heavily but he managed to hawk up a gob of blood and spat it out in a gesture of manly bravado.

"I'm fine now," he said gruffly. "But take a look at the corpse and I'll do you the same favour if you start screaming,"

I grunted and then bent over to examine it.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

The body wasn't that of a girl's.

Nor a dwarf's.

It was that of a monster's. It was vaguely humanoid, shorter than an ordinary human but just the right size for a dwarf. The resemblance ends there, however.

Pale skin that looked as rough and uneven as untanned animal hide, mottled with blisters **[3]** and bruises peeked out from beneath the thing's armour. I touched it and even through an amateur's eye, I could tell it was thicker than a normal human's skin. When I pushed at it, the flesh didn't give way to my finger, as a human's does. The skin could well have acted like a second armour.

Two arrows jutted out from its body, one embedded on the left leg and the other protruding from the heart, its fletching pointing proudly at the sky. Two short but cruelly sharp daggers hung at its hip—it never had a chance to face its killer. Unnaturally long and sharp nails jutted out from a claw, they looked like they were meant to rip at flesh.

The face was the worst of all.

The monster was bald; with narrow eyes that stared blankly back at me. I felt a shiver ran down my spine as I looked at those glassy orbs; even in death they seemed to glimmer with a strange light. Its mouth was opened wide to show rows and rows of razor sharp teeth.

This thing…this _monster, _whatever it was, was highly proficient killing machine. What could kill it?

I studied the arrows closely. The fletching was made up of hawk feathers and the wood used to make it was polished so highly that it gleamed brightly. Someone had obviously made it with great pride and love. Strange markings were embedded deeply into it, none of which looked vaguely familiar to me.

I needed to study this corpse more closely and without the added pressure of being so exposed in this forest. I also wanted the others at camp to take a look at it, ask the others who I've sent scouting whether they found out something like this.

"Jan," I turned to my friend who was still looking at the body with wide, fearful eyes. "Man up, we need to carry this back to camp,"

The poor guy looked like he was about to faint. "What?"

I didn't have time to tend to his affectations so I just hauled the disgusting thing on my back, trying to ignore the rebellion going on in my stomach, the fetid odour that was now worsened by the thing's proximity.

Were there more of these things?

Who killed it?

Were the monsters still in the forest?

Were the killers?

All the way back to camp, I felt eyes burn their stares onto my back.

**-From the Journal of Malcolm Cousland**

**[1]: I figured that wearing anything to heavy would be loud and cumbersome and not good for sneaking at all, so I made them wear a chain mail. :D**

**[2] Chain mails aren't much good for heavy-duty combat, mostly it just blocks **_**slashing **_**attacks but aren't good at absorbing arrow impacts or blunt blows.**

**[3] Since the darkspawn have been in the Deep Roads for **_**waaaayyy**_**too long, they'd probably burn in the sun, at least I think so.**

**Aaand…that's it! Whew, took me longer to finish this one because I kept getting so frustrated at it. Anyway, read, review, enjoy! Until next time! Feedback is highly appreciated! :)  
**

Resources:

Dragon Age Wiki for some stuff

The Complete Guide to Writing Fantasy, Volume 1


	7. Chapter 7

**Whew, sorry it took so long to update! I've been so busy I haven't been able to write. Err...this one has mature content, by the way, so watch your eyes kiddies **

**These Strange Creatures**

**888 T.E.**

We had managed to catch up to Aera on the way back and even though we all took turns carrying the corpse, all three of us had emptied our stomachs of their contents long before we even reached thing's smell felt as if it had sunk into my skin and that no amount of scrubbing or bathing will ever make me feel clean again. To add insult to the injury, Jan had developed an annoying habit of looking at me every few seconds and sniggering behind his hand.

I had been walking in this forest for Maker-knows-how-long and had been doing so for the past hour with a corpse hanging on my back. I was not in the mood for frivolity.

"One word, Jan," I swore. "One word and you'll be carrying this thing all the way back to camp,"

Despite my warning Jan still sniggered annoyingly. "You know, Malcolm, it wouldn't be so bad if you just imagine you were carrying _me _back to the barracks after a hard night of drinking," he paused. "For me, anyway. Malcolm doesn't drink," he explained to Aera with a sly glance at me.

"You make me sound like a crusty old Revered Mother," I grunted. Aera, however, did not rise to my friend's bait but instead gently replied, "I think that it will be very easy for Malcolm to pretend that the thing on his back is Jan who passed out drunk; they should smell just about the same,"

Maker bless her.

I couldn't help but laugh at the annoyed expression on Jan's face as he protested, "Hey! I don't smell _that _bad,"

Suddenly though, Aera stopped smiling and froze. Her back stiffened and all traces of humor vanished from her face. Her dark eyes swept across the forest floor as if in search of invisible enemies.

"Aera, what is it?" My throat felt unusually dry as I spoke.

"Shut up,"

I shut up. Was Aera feeling the same unease that I felt a while ago? Was it possible that someone was following us?

_Something? _

Briefly, I calculated the time it would take for me to reach my sword should some sort of dwarven warriors come down on us.

Do I have time to reach my shield if the same arrows that had taken the monster's life seek to end ours?

How long would it take me to jump in front of my friends and block the projectiles?

_Too long…too long…_I let the corpse drop from my shoulders to give me better access to my shield. I gritted my teeth as Jan and I waited for the scout's verdict, watching her as she slowly spun in place, surveying the forest with an almost frightening intensity.

My muscles felt as tight as lute strings, just waiting to be plucked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jan draw the silverite daggers that usually hung from his hip belt. I did the same and readied my shield. My friend slowly edged away from me, circling around Aera, who was still scanning the forest as a mouse scans an open field; sure that there's an owl lurking in the shadows, waiting to visit death upon it.

I realized that without meaning to, both of us moved into a defensive position around Aera.

It was not because we had no respect for her as a warrior, I had a healthy respect for her skills with a crossbow, it was because of the three of us, she had the lightest armor, the most easily penetrated—

The crunch of dried leaves underneath someone's boot alerted me to a presence.

My body reacted before my mind did and I threw up my shield just in time for it to intercept a weapon that bounced off it with a clang. Something that sounded like a cross between a bear's battle roar and the squeal of a wild boar erupted from the other side of my shield. The same stench that came from the creature I was carrying only moments before now rushed to assault me. No _dwarves_, I thought. We were being attacked by those _things_.

I was profusely grateful that I had been given a split-second to brace myself against my opponent's frightening countenance.

Had I seen it immediately, I doubt I would have kept my wits.

Behind me, Jan's scream confirmed the effect of seeing the monster up close.

"Get out of here, Aera! Shoot them from afar!" I shouted, all thoughts of being quiet vanishing. I needed to bring those things down on me, away from Jan and Aera. I saw the scout sprint away from the immediate danger zone. A dark figure sprung from the other side of my shield to follow her, thinking quickly, I slammed my shield against its body, watching it fall flat on its back. My shield arm ached from the impact.

The thing's head reared up to scream at me, its white, dead eyes gazing sightlessly at me. The skin of its face looked as if it were stitched together from a hundred different human skins. By someone who was none too skilled with a needle, as well.

A patchwork nightmare.

Inside, I am screaming.

The monster leaped to its feet with surprising dexterity. With two small daggers glistening in each hand, the thing pounced at me.

I swung my sword in front of me and managed to block it. The impact rattled my arm. But instead of leaping back as I expected it to, the monster rushed forward forcing me to be the one to step back, keeping my distance. I saw what it was doing.

Longswords like mine are not good at close quarters, daggers are; I wasn't going to give it that sort of advantage.

We circled each other, the world closing itsef off and leacing just the two of us.

I could see it all the more clearly now, the blisters on its patchwork face, the battle scars.

A warrior, like me.

Then die a warrior, I thought furiously. I lunged, sword pointing straight ahead. The monster raised the dagger to block my attack—too slow! The tip of my blade sank into the base of its throat. Black blood spewed out of the open wound and the creature's stench surrounded me again

I pulled back and slashed again at its throat. Ichor gushed out from the wound like a grotesque fountain.

Too long…too long…I took too long.

My friends need me. I whirled around to find Jan locked in a dead dance with another one of the things. This one was taller and stronger by the looks of it. It was furiously swinging a gigantic sword at Jan, who was barely keeping out of the way.

"Jan!" I yelled, more to attract our adversary's attention than my friend's. It worked and in the split-second it took the monster to glance in my direction, Jan had rammed his knee in its crotch.

Despite its alien quality, I couldn't help but feel a stab of empathy as I watch its face turn slakc. A strangled sob escaped its mouth, a sound that was soon cut off when Jan's dagger slid across it throat like a hot knife through butter. The monster sank to its knees, its hands reaching to try and staunch the river that flowed from its wound. A dying wail was the only sound it could make.

In that moment, it looked so very, very human. Jan grinned in triumph.

"Two down, oh yeah. We are awe—"

A scream sliced through the air, sharper than any weapon I wielded.

Aera's.

Without needing to speak, Jan and I whirled to locate the source. Just a few feet away from us, her crossbow lying forgotten at her feet was Aera. Although I couldn't see her expression, the fear that radiated off her was unmistakable. She swung her hands wildly, as if to ward off invisible foes.

"Aera!" Jan's voice was shrill, frightened. I took one step in her direction.

And my world explosed in pain as fire consumed my entire being.

I fell to my knees, every nerve in my body dancing with pain. The smell of burned flesh threatened to choke me. It took me several long moments to understand that it was my own flesh I smelled.

A harsh, animal laugh echoed across the clearing. My heart leapt to my throat.

A monster's face loomed above mine.

Its mouth was tilted upward in a mocking smile. Its face was just as terrible as the others before it but its eyes held a glimmer of intelligence that neither of its companion's eyes had. With a flash of fear, I realized that _this _monster was something more than bloodlust and animal instinct. On its back, a staff as dark as night.

Highlighted by the light of the clearing, it seemed to block out everything else.

Mage. Fear made my breath come out in rattling gasps. _What was it going to do? _

It held out a scarred claw towards me, poised as if to rip my eyes out of their sockets.

Was it going to kill me? Jan? Aera? No, _no, _I couldn't allow it to do that. My hand tightened to a fist and I realized that I was still holding sword when my fingers screamed in protest as they embraced the rough surface of the hilt. I blinked back at the monster that was smiling at me.

At this distance, if I swung my sword, I could do serious damage, even through the makeshift mail it was wearing.

If only I could lift my arm…

Before I could even do anything, pain shot through me and I screamed as I felt the skin on chest split open and blood spurt out of the wound. No, not spurting, it was _flying_, right into the open hand of the monster. I watched as the blood—my blood—evaporates and disappears.

The monster raised its staff and lightning burst on its tip.

_Shit. _

The shock of the scene galvanized me into action, I gripped the hilt of my sword, my muscles screaming in protest. The silverite sword tore easily throught the mail, slicing the flesh underneath. My opponent leapt back with a scream of pain.

I struggled to my feet, the pain in my chest dulling my senses. I couldn't help but feel a surge of vicious triumph as I saw the creature's blood staining its mail.

But before I could attack again, my opponent turned tail and ran.

Ranged attacks. _Of course._

I gave chase.

No point in picking up my shield, I wouldn't be able to use it properly in my weakened state anyway. Even as I ran, the distance between me and the monster increased, my movements feeling frustratingly slow and uncoordinated, as if I was running through water. Every part of me ached.

But I couldn't let go too far, far enough to use another spell on me. Just when the thought ran through my mind, my adversary whirled around. Fire burst to life in its hand.

_Maker help me._

I braced myself for the fire, knowing that I could not possibly withstand the impact. I thought of the shield I had so stupidly dismissed.

And saw the creature's head snap back violently. I saw it drop to its knees with an arrow lodged firmly in its eye, the fire on its fingertips sizzling and vanishing.

The fear in my chest vanished. An arrow saved. _An arrow. _I turned around with a joyous cry of "Aera!" expecting to see that wonderful, wonderful scout holding her weapon in her hands, a cheeky grin on her face. But what I saw instead was the sight of Jan and Aera struggling to get up, the damage of the explosion earlier clearly showing on their battered bodies.

The relief was replaced by worry. I rushed to them. "Are you all right?" I asked worriedly. Judging by the grin on Jan's face, he'll live.

"Wow, Malcolm where'd you learn to throw a dagger like that?"

"Dagger?"

"Yeah, the one you just threw at that mage over there? Can you teach me?" His face was the portrait of eagerness. "I didn't throw anything. I thought Aera shot it," I glanced at her but she was shaking her head mournfully.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm but that mage…it cast a spell on me, made me see terrible things…" A shiver ran through her. "I couldn't think, much less think," She gestured at her crossbow.

_Crossbow. _Though I didn't know much about ranged weapons I knew that crossbows shot quarrels, not arrows.

"Who shot it then?" I demanded impatiently.

Aera looked confused, 'Who shot what, Malcolm?"

"The mage! Someone shot it before it finish its spell, I thought it was you,"

"No!" Aera was instantly alert. "Someone is here with us? In the forest?" She sprang up as she did so. Jan, however, did not share her concern.

"If someone that think for us, then he's a friend,"

Aera was murmuring soundlessly to herself and her lips formed the word, "Not exactly,"

She limped over to the boy and, feeling guilty I offered to help her walk. She batted me away as one would to puppy who follows one around a little too much.

"Stop being chivalrous, Malcolm, you can barely walk as it is," It was true, even as she spoke, I could feel myself swaying on my feet. Still, I couldn't help feeling a little less than knightly as I watched her hobble over to the corpse.

"Yeah, Malcolm, stop being so knightly," Jan jeered. He paused, then added in a false falsetto voice, "Though I won't object to you carrying _me,_"

"Crawl back to camp for all I care!" Despite myself I couldn't help but grin.

The smiles slid off our faces when Aera returned with the arrow that had save my life. Her face was grim as she held it up. It was made out of dark wood, polished to a luster. Hawk feathers made up for fletching and strange marking ran across its length. The same arrows we saw on the corpse we found a few hours ago.

"Someone's been hunting," Aera observed.

"Someone who saved us by putting that thing through that monster's skull," Jan persisted.

"Someone who still hasn't shown himself in spite of that fact," I supplied. Jan's lips formed a childish pout. "Aren't you optimistic? Some mystery guy saves us and what do you do? You don't trust him. Pfft. Sometimes Malcolm, you can be so boring,"

I rolled my eyes. "_You're _just hoping it's some big strong man who can carry you back to camp. Lazy bastard,"

"Why would I do that when I have you?"

"Piss off,"

"Boys, boys," Aera interrupted the banter with a glare that made me feel like a reproached child. "As much as I love to hear about your sordid escapades, we really have to find out who our savior is,"

Right. I recalibrated my mind, pushing myself away from Jan's jokes and Aera's voice, away from the pain. Now was not the time for _Malcolm_, now was the time for a leader, not a scared little man who can barely stand on his feet.

"All right, here's the plan, if the archer really is on our side then good, great. But if he's not—shut up, Jan, it's a real possibility," Jan was on the verge of opening his mouth and protesting. He shut it without comment.

"Here's the plan," I continued. "Aera, scale the trees and bring your crossbow. I want you to signal me if you see anything,"

"Right, I won't let you down this time, Malcolm," From the expression on her face, I could tell that she feeling guilty at not having given a hand earlier.

"Jan scout around the perimeter. Be ready for anything," Jan scowled in pain as he stood up.

"And what will you be doing, then?" Aera asked suspiciously.

"I'll try and talk to our savior," I grimaced at the word.

As my companions took their places, I hefted up my shield—Maker, was it always so _heavy _before?

I took a deep breath.

"If anyone is out there, please show yourself, I want to talk to you,"

No answer.

"I'm not here to fight, please," When the archer did not reply, I had a sudden flash of brilliance—or stupidity, call it what you may.

"We don't want to fight—look," I let my weapons fall to the ground, shield and sword clanging against the hard earth with an oddly ominous sound.

I could feel my companions' disapproval of my actions. If the archer decided to shoot at me, I knew that I was nowhere near fast enough to grab my shield.

All I had to do now was trust in the mysterious man who saved us. I held my breath.

One of the shadows moved, suddenly appearing more solid, more _there._ And it spoke, "Andaran atish'an, shemlen," in a voice too high to be a man's. A loud sound echoed throughout the forest as a bow hit the ground. The figure stepped into the light, its hands unbuckling a strange cloak that was draped around its shoulders.

My heart stopped.

Not a man, a woman. A woman a full foot shorter than I, one who looked at me with fever-bright blue eyes, one who barely looked older than Aera. Her face was decorated with a strange tattoo, intricate designs that swirled across her cheeks and forehead.

A woman whose silver hair didn't hide the strange shape of her ears, which tapered into pointed tips.

Not a man.

Not even a human.

An elf.

**AHHHHHHH! This is supposed to be longer than it is right now but it's 2 a.m. (Yep, I usually write at the wee hours of the morning, I'm a hope insomniac, you see XD) and I have to get up at 4 a.m. to participate in a marathon and I'm really, really tired. Look, I'll just try to update sooner. As soon as possible, I promise. I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading!**

**Please review! :D**


	8. Chapter 8: Part 1

**I'm sort of missing Valek, now. XD Next chapter ought to be about him and the chapter after that ought to introduce a new character. I'll try and update earlier next time, since my semestral break is just around the corner. **

**Sorry to say that not much happens in this chapter, think of it as a transition chapter. I promise I'll try and make that next one better.**

**The End of the Line**

**888 T.E. **

For several long moments, neither I nor the elf said anything; merely stared at each other. So stunned were we by each other's presence that we both found that we couldn't speak.

An elf. _An elf._ Nearly everyone in the barracks has heard of them: their near god-like power, their cruel personalities, their ability to bend the forest to their will—was it all true? Children would tell themselves stories about how these elves would carry away babies and drink their blood as if it were wine.

What was I supposed to say to a monster like that? How was I even sure which stories were real and which were false?

I was a warrior, not a diplomat, not a legend debunker. My mouth suddenly felt unusually dry. The elf opened her mouth to speak when a sudden cry from the shadows robbed her of what she was about to say.

Jan materialized behind the elven woman, his daggers unsheathed and glittering with the thirst for blood. He had, after all, heard all the same things I did—which ones did he believe?

Could this elf really kill us in the time it took Jan to reach her?

"No, Jan, stop! Please don't hurt her!" It was Aera who screamed, just as Jan's daggers sliced through the air where the elf used to be. The elven woman had nimbly twisted out of the way and was quickly backing away from Jan, her eyes on the bow she had abandoned in a gesture of peace.

A peace that had been shattered in but a few minutes.

"No, wait stop!" I surged forward, intent on calming them down—Jan and the elf both. But the silver-haired woman had obviously misinterpreted my intentions for in the next second, she already had an arrow on her bow and its string was pulled taught in a half-draw.

She spoke a steady stream of words too fast for me to make heads or tails of, although the meaning was clear enough when she raised her weapon a little higher and took steady aim at my face.

For the second time that day, I thought of my shield, which I had again dismissed as unnecessary.

_Dammit. _

I raised my hands to show that I meant no harm, but in my mind, I was already wondering whether or not it was too late. It's not like I could blame her, Jan had attacked her first, when she had come to us defenseless.

"No! Elf, please stop!" Once again, Aera's voice stopped us in our tracks. All three of us froze at sound of her voice and I noted with some relief that the elf had lowered her weapon slightly. Aera's figure reappeared as she spoke, now only partially obscured by the leaves and branches of the tree where she had hid in.

"She didn't even hurt us, Jan, she came to us unarmed. Don't do anything threatening, either of you," the scout jumped down from her branch as she spoke.

The elven woman's arrow concentrated on her instead of me. Aera responded to this by shooting the cocked bolt at the trunk of a tree a few meters away from the both of them. **[1]**

The elf's aim did not waver as the bolt hit the wood with a dull _thunk_. She was trained well, for that I'm glad. An amateur might have jumped or accidentally loosed the arrow at the noise, but the archer did not even blink.

Crossbow disarmed, Aera proceeded to fold it and sling it across her back. The process took several minutes and by the time she was finished, my legs were already shaking from the effort of holding me up.

"Look, I'm now unarmed—see? How about you unarm yourself as well?" Though her words were soothing, the damage was already done; the elf did not lower her weapon.

Or maybe it was because she did not understand our language. This theory was backed up when, instead of responding to Aera, the elf glared in my direction and spat out the words,

"_Makatak'o shemlen!" _Hurt and betrayal shone through her eyes and I realized that, by disarming herself, she had left herself completely exposed. Unlike me, she had no back-up.

She thought that I was alone as well. With this in mind, I sought to explain my actions, "Look, if it's about Jan, I was just being cautious—" But I cut off my words almost immediately when I saw her tense, like a deer that has caught the sense of a hunter. She didn't trust me anymore. I felt guilt and shame welling up inside me, as if I had done something unforgivable, which perhaps I did. I also felt a curious emotion: curiosity, perhaps. This elf—this woman, was not the monster that our tales had made her out to be. Despite the tattoos, the ears and the strange language, she was much a person as I was. And I had betrayed her trust.

All three of us had.

She was preparing to run away, I could see the muscles in her legs tensing.

"Hey, we're not going to hurt you," Aera said gently. She tried to approach the other woman but the she shied away, those blue eyes practically shining with wariness.

Such human expressions for such an alien face.

Despite this not-so-encouraging display, Aera plowed on.

"I'm sorry about Jan, he's just overexcited," Aera glared at Jan to make a point. To his credit, the man dropped his weapons and looked sheepish.

The elf, though looking unconvinced, lowered her bow. I couldn't help but relax when she did so. "That's better," Aera sounded relieved. "We should try communicating, do you understand Fereldan?" She flashed a winning smile.

Jan was already shaking his head at Aera's words and even I felt a sliver of apprehension as we watched the elf's face for any sign of comprehension. The archer studied our faces for a minute longer and then, to my astonishment, spoke in Feraldan, "Yes, _shemlen_, I understand your language," Although she's obviously well-learned in our language, her accent was all wrong: the words were too precise, too overly enunciated, the pronunciation all wrong, as if she had no idea how to pronounce them.

Aera kept smiling, though I was sure that it was starting to hurt her face by now.

"_Shemlen_?" she asked. "I'm sorry I don't know what that word means,"

"Quick children," the elf explained. "It is what we call you humans,"

"Right, all right; my name's Aera. That's Malcolm over there and that man with the brown hair is Jan,"

"Atisha,"

"That's a pretty name,"

Atisha blinked and then stiffly said, "Thank you. But you did not come here to exchange compliments. Why did you come here, _shemlen_?" By this time, I decided to jump in.

"There's been a raid on a nearby town by bandits," Here, my words faltered; how was I even sure anymore that we were facing bandits? "They took the womenfolk with them. Have you seen them…passing through the forest, maybe?" Atisha's attention shifted to me.

"Malcolm, yes?" she asked, rolling my name around her mouth as if savoring the taste of it. I nodded eagerly, happy now that she was deciding to trust us. "Yes, I saw your women; they were being dragged away by some of the monsters," At her words, I became thoroughly excited: here, finally, was a solid lead! I moved toward her with the intention of wringing every last bit of detail out of the elf when, I felt my legs protest that, at last, they are no longer able to support my weight. They trembled violently underneath me and I sit myself on a large slab of rock before I did myself the embarrassment of falling flat on my face** [2]**. As soon as I did, I felt all the adrenaline drain from me, leaving me weak and shaking. My teammates, who up until now had been scrutinizing the elf allowed worry to cloud their faces.

"Malcolm! Are you all right?" Aera exclaimed, her eyes raking across my blood-soaked mail, the various bruises and burns.

"Hey rosebud, you're not going to faint of me are you? Cause I would _hate _to carry you back to camp," Jan wrinkled his nose in mock distaste.

"I'm fine," I muttered, embarrassed at their fussing. "I just need to dress my wounds," I fiddled absentmindedly at the straps of my mail. "Aera, Atisha, could you please both turn away? I need to remove my mail," I could feel my cheeks heating up at the thought.

_Dammit dammit dammit. _Why couldn't I be like one of those men at camp who could strip in front of everyone with impunity?

"_I_ could help you take your clothes off, Malcolm," Jan purred, once again adopting his false-falsetto voice. Dammit, never mind that he joked like that in front of Aera but he shouldn't do that in front of a stranger. Atisha was already looking at us curiously. Great.

"Why Malcolm, you're turning red! Are you actually _responding _to my advances?"

"Thanks, but no thanks, I'd rather not get raped," I snapped. "Turn around with the rest of them,"

Jan pouted then turned serious. "Hey, rosebud, if you really need help, I'll choke down my masculine pride and help,"

"Can't choke down what's never there to begin with," I muttered. "I'm fine," Even as I said it, my fingers felt awkward and clumsy as they struggled with the leather straps. Aera and Jan dutifully turned their backs but Atisha continued to stare at me in a way that made me uncomfortable.

"Um…this is the part where you show me your back," I mumbled, trying not to trip over my own tongue. But instead of turning away, she kneeled next to me and started working on my straps.

"I can help dress your wounds faster," she said as her fingers flew over the complicated knots with a nimbleness that fascinated me.

"Oh, is that your occupation within your…erm, community?" This was a chance to learn more about her community, its difference from ours, its similarities; a communication with this elf, free from the prejudices brought on by our folklore. But Atisha merely gestured for me to remove my mail. Feeling my cheeks burn hotter by the second, I removed the cumbersome armor while praying to every god I've heard of that she not ask me to remove my padding **[3] **and shirt. To no avail, she gestured again, this time a little more impatient, as if I should have known to take them off along with my mail.

When I had stripped down, Atisha looked closely at the source of all the blood: a dark, angry slash that made its way across the span of my chest. It looked deep and I flinched when the elf ran a gentle finger along its edge. Her eyes seemed to have glazed over at the sight of it. I couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious.

"This has been done by magic," she said softly. I had the sudden, vivid image of the monster-mage using its power to steal my blood. I nodded weakly at her.

"Now, if you'll just help me dress it," I said, hoping she'll take the hint. But instead of reaching for my pack, she reached for a green pouch that was hanging on her waist. Immediately, all the alarm bells in my head went off.

"Er…what're you planning to do with that?" I demanded. Diplomacy aside, I knew nothing of this elf and I wasn't going to let her smear any old thing on me.

Atisha threw me a disgusted look and then tossed a small bottle containing a strange red liquid at me.

"Drink it,"

I glared at her. "Not until you tell me what it is," I willed my voice to stay calm.

"Bleed to death, then, for all I care," she snapped angrily. She turned away muttering in her own strange language. I was very aware of the fast-expanding rift between us. If we offended her too much, she might never tell us where the women are. With this in mind, I uncorked the bottle and sniffed it gingerly. It had a strangely pleasant smell, minty and soothing.

I shot a glance at the elf who was staring back at me with cold blue eyes.

Right. If anything happened to me, Jan and Aera were there, right? It was a comforting thought, despite the fact that I knew that neither of them were educated in the way of poisons. Nevertheless, keeping my mind on the women and what they might be going through right now, I lifted the bottle to my lips and drained it. It tasted _terrible_, much like the gruel they served us back at the barracks.

I gasped as I felt a curious sensation somewhere around the vicinity of the slash. It felt like someone was spreading hot balm across it. I looked down and nearly screamed—thank the Maker I didn't, Jan would never have let me live it down—at what I saw.

The wound was gone, in its place was raw, pink flesh. Fascinated, I ran a hand across it.

I looked to Atisha. "Thank you," I said sincerely. She snorted again, which oddly enough, suited her childlike features. It was like watching a child throwing a tantrum.

I carefully put on my armor back again.

"Hey, can we look now?" Jan asked. "Or are you two doing something that involves _both _of you without your clothes on? Can I join? I wouldn't—ow!" Aera had just punched him in the shoulder.

"Rude ass," the scout said as she turned back to us.

"All right, where to next?" she asked. She smiled at Atisha, who smiled tentatively back.

So she's only hostile with me, lovely. "You said you knew where the women are, right?" Atisha nodded hesitantly.

"Can you show us where?" I decided to let Aera handle this. I had the sneaking suspicion that if Jan or I asked the elf, she'd lead us straight off a cliff.

Atisha shook her head frantically. My heart sank. "What? Why?" I exclaimed, disappointment making my voice hoarse. Atisha looked straight at me and I could see the fear in her eyes.

"Go home, Malcolm. They are dead,"

Suddenly, I felt as if the ground was opening up and swallowing me whole, and I was falling, falling straight down to the center of it.

**[1] I checked on the internet and I found out that the easiest way to disarm a crossbow was to shoot it away from you. Not sure about this, though, since I've never even held a crossbow in my life. **

**[2] Malcolm, you weakling! XD One swordfight, a fireball and a Life Drain later and you're already falling asleep?! XDDD **

**[3] The padding is worn underneath one's armor so that the metal doesn't chafe your skin. **

**This chapter is short and unsatisfactory I know, but I'm pretty upset since my brother read this and insulted it *sobs*. I guess I don't really have the energy to keep writing right now, what with my exams just around the corner. **

**I'll try and update but it'll be slower because from now on, I'll try and contact my foster brother (who also happens to be a writer) and ask him to review a chapter before I post it. **


	9. Chapter 8: Part 2

**Varel, dear, I've grown to love you. **

**Oh, and I realized that in the last chapter I said **_**Valek **_**instead of **_**Varel **_**and I LOLed. I've been reading waaaayy to much **_**Poison Study. **_**Read it, it's awesome. Speaking of awesome, I really want to thank all those awesome people who clicked favorite, follow and review. You guys are amazing. **

**Say, anyone willing to Beta-read this thing? PM me if you're interested. **

**Chapter 8: Part 2**

**Where Heroes Don't Exist**

In the Dwarven Kingdoms, it was better to die than to be exiled.

To die, especially in battle, with a blade in your hand and your own blood pooling beneath your rapidly cooling corpse was considered an honor.

More so if you had fallen fighting a throng of darkspawn.

It showed that in your life, you were willing to stand and _die _for something; the greatest _something _in a dwarva's life: the Golden City, Orzammar. To give up your life like that meant that you were _brave. _

Today however, called for a different sort of bravery, one that Varel was unfamiliar with. Up until now, he had only been familiar with the kind of courage that came just moments before he faced a group of darkspawn or a charging Bronto. The bravery he felt now was different and when compared to the kind he was more familiar with, felt small and insignificant much like a small and quivering nug.

It didn't feel like courage at all; and yet he clung to it as if it was a long-lost friend. It made the dwarva even sadder when he realized that it might be the only friend he had left. News of what had happened in the Chamber of the Assembly had spread like wildfire across Orzammar. Everywhere he went Varel was hissed and spat by his fellow dwarvas, whenever he walked down the streets of the Commons, women whispered and men jeered.

Children would stop playing to gawk and point at him. Varel could not even go to his local bar without having lichen ale being splashed in his face. The dwarva's hands shook at the injustice of it.

Why couldn't they _see_? All of these castes—royalty and casteless alike—that had pointed their stubby little fingers at him and laughed at his 'sickness' were all so sodding stupid.

The truth was _there_! Right in front of their Stone-blind eyes!

A sudden, crackling sound pulled Varel out of his thoughts and made him look down. To his dismay, he saw that in his anger he had accidentally crushed a sheaf of vellum in his hands. He sighed, it would not do if he started breaking stuff purely on impulse.

Resources were rare in the Deep Roads and he needed to be able to conserve everything he will bring with him.

Gently, Varel unfurled the crushed vellum and blew out a sigh of relief when he saw that it was blank. If it had been one of his maps, he would have really been in trouble. The ex-guard chuckled darkly to himself.

He was probably the first dwarva that drew a map that led to the Surface and not to other dwarven kingdoms. No sane dwarva would ever choose to live underneath the sky when they could live in places like Orzammar or Kal-Sharok. But then again, these places would soon disappear if Varel didn't do anything about it. If he didn't act soon, perhaps all dwarvas would have to live under the sky.

The smile on Varel's face faded as he smoothed his vellum on a stone desk and then, carefully tucked it in his backpack. He was glad that he had been given time to pack his belongings prior to his exile, perhaps it was because the Assembly simply did not know what to do with him. He was, after all, the first dwarva who ever opted to be exiled from his homeland.

The things he had packed rattled alarmingly as Varel hoisted his bag onto his back. He checked to see if his sword was in place and whether it could slide easily out of its sheath. Satisfied, he left the house and traveled to the great gates of Orzammar.

Although he kept his head down, the ex-guard could still feel the stares of his fellow dwarva burn into his back as he approached the gates. It felt like every single dwarva in Orzammar had flocked to the gates that led to the Deep Roads so that they could see Varel's shame. Of course that wasn't at all true; precious few dwarvas knew the exact day of the exile but right then it seemed to poor Varel as if everyone in Orzammar turned their eyes on him, silently mocking and judging.

And can he blame them?

A year ago, he had come back from his guard duty with his companions dead, his breeches soiled and his mouth babbling nonsense about a giant dragon hiding in the Deep Roads. Any dwarva would be predisposed to laugh at whatever Varel would have said in his state. But did they have to mock and spit and hiss at him for telling the truth? Did he deserve so much hate simply because he wanted to save Orzammar? _Yes he can blame them. _

"Varel Aeducan." the deep voice of another dwarva had jolted him out of his thoughts. The snowy white beard of Hareel, a member of the Assembly came into view as Varel raised his head. The blue eyes that accompanied that beard looked dull, lifeless, _stupid. _

Weren't the members supposed to be known for their intelligence?

Why were they all so blind then?

Varel didn't respond in words, but merely nodded his head. A small lump seemed to have gotten stuck in his throat. Behind him, he could hear the whispering of the small crowd that had gathered to see his exile and above all that petty mischief; he could hear the soft sobs of Evana Aeducan. He promised himself he wouldn't look at her. Hareel was speaking again.

"Due to your offensive acts against the Assembly and our King, you have been sentenced to die by exile in the Deep Roads."

"Oh, is _that _what you dwarva told them?" Varel swept a hand to the whispering crowd. "This had nothing to do with my choice, eh?" Evana sobbed harder than ever.

Hareel only glared.

"Do you have any last words to say?"

Varel shook his head. The sobbing was now accompanied by soft shushing noises that could only come from his father. Bron Aeducan had maintained the idea—along with the rest of Orzammar—that he had lost his mind during his last guard duty in the Deep Roads, that the sickness that had taken so many dwarvas' lives was now taking his son's mind.

Varel promised he wouldn't look at him, either.

With nothing else left to do, the giant gates swung open. Varel's heart thumped against his throat and his mouth felt so dry that he couldn't have spoken had he wanted to.

He cast one last final glance at Orzammar, intending to keep it forever embedded in his memory and, in doing so, he caught a glimpse of his parents.

His mother had grown thinner, her long blonde hair once so shiny, had lost its sheen. Her eyes seemed permanently watery.

His father's face had grown more lined.

Varel hated that he would be the one who would have to do this to them.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he took his courage in both hands and walked out of the gates, perhaps for the last time. As the gates shut with an almighty clang, Varel's something squeezed at Varel's heart with surprising ferocity and, although the dwarva had promised himself that he would walk out of the golden city with his head held high, the first thing that Varel Aeducan did on his exile was squat down in the dust and cry.

He had walked a few hours before deciding to rest near one of the nearby highways. He had passed several groups of darkspawn but Varel had opted not to fight them, mostly because he would have been torn apart.

He was lucky, though, so far he had managed to avoid the main horde.

"It's strange though," Varel muttered to himself as he rubbed his sore feet. "Should've seen more darkspawn by now…this deep in the roads."

Could that mean that he was nearing the Surface?

Somehow, he was both excited and frightened by the notion.

Varel suddenly stilled and with swift, practiced movements he yanked his boots back on and unsheathed his sword.

Darkspawn.

No other creature in the Deep Roads could ever make those horrible barking sounds. But there was something different, sounds that didn't belong to the normally raucous noise the darkspawn made. There was…crying. Very loud crying, too, much unlike the soft sobs that accompanied his mother's shaking shoulders just hours ago.

And there were a _lot _of people crying. Cautiously, Varel peered at the roads and was shocked to see a huge number of darkspawn towing a group of human women, all of them crying hysterically. This was the first time he ever saw humans and he was struck by their height, some of them towered over the other darkspawn.

Their bodies, too, were different from the dwarvas, more delicate than the barrel-chested people of the Deep Roads. They held a certain vulnerability that made them look so breakable, made all the more obvious now that they were drowning in a sea of monsters.

Little girls clung stubbornly to their mothers' aprons all the while sucking their thumbs with a dedication hardly seen in children above two years of age. Their mothers, although clearly terrified, smoothed their children's hair and whispered words of assurances.

Inside Varel's head, the cogs worked furiously.

What were these monsters going to do with the women?

Where did they get them?

Why _only_ women?

Varel's breath caught in his throat as he watched the grim parade march before him, their direction heading deeper into the roads.

Should he follow?

Should he leave? He had, after all, absolutely no obligation to these women. His first priority was Orzammar, he needed to alert the monarchs of the Surface so that they could send help to his city. To follow these women would give the darkspawn more time to draw up their plan of attack.

"Don't be a hero, Varel, they're just _humans_," he muttered to himself. They were _human _not dwarvas. His first loyalty should always be to the dwarvas.

Also, if he _did _follow them, what can he do? Fight off a horde of darkspawn when he had been trying to avoid that very thing?

He would just get killed and perhaps would get the women killed right along with him. No, no, far better to reach the Surface quickly, and forget this ever happened.

Then, he glimpsed a tall, proud woman whose face didn't hold the same amount of terror the others did.

She was frightened, sure, but she held herself with such dignity that she looked more like a queen with her entourage rather than the victim of a horrible kidnapping.

Several children clung to her skirts and the women seemed to congregate around her, as if they could draw from her strength.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

And in that moment, Varel could have sworn that her lips moved to form the word, "_Help us._"

It was then, that Varel knew that he simply could not leave these women here. He had to at least _try _to save them.

With a sigh, the dwarva crept back to his pack and slipped it on. It looked like the Surface would have to wait another day.

**Well, that's it. Sorry it took so long to update but I just came off of two weeks' worth of finals and projects and papers and whatnot. I tell you, it was **_**horrible. **_**I'll try and update sooner next time. Sorry this one's so short but it's 3 a.m. and my mother would **_**kill **_**me if I woke up any later than 7 a.m. **

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	10. Chapter 9

**The reason why I took so long to update? I was deliberating on rewriting this whole thing, since I feel as if I'm just stumbling around in the dark, trying to hold onto a semblance of the plot and the story I'm actually trying to tell. Personally, I think that it'll be better if I rewrite it, same characters, some of the scenes the same but different presentation, especially Malcolm and the others. Felt like the only one I got right was Varel.**

**What do you think? **** Oh yeah, viewer discretion is advised. **

**She Who Fell from the Stone**

**888 T.E.**

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

Although she had been in a deep sleep, the soft sounds were enough to wake the slumbering dwarva. Bloodshot eyes snapped open and her body immediately tensed. Though hunger and dehydration had long clouded her thoughts, one question was still rang crystal clear inside her addled brain shining as brilliantly as a diamond among the ashes of her once-sane mind.

_Is this it?_

_Is this it?_

_Is this it?_

Hesiah was the only one left, after all. There was no one else for them to take except her.

The monsters had taken Fran hours—or was it days? Did it matter?—ago. The dwarva remembered how Fran had screamed and clung to Hesiah's hand as soon as she heard the monster's footsteps echoing across the Deep Tunnels. Had she known then, mere minutes from the actual event, that she was the one who was going to be dragged away and not Hesiah?

Hesiah's stomach clenched painfully as she remembered how she did not squeeze Fran's hand back to comfort her as the thick metal doors swung to reveal the silhouette of the monsters. Because she too, knew—though she did not know how—that it was Fran who was going to be taken and not her.

But instead of horror or pity or fear or protectiveness for Fran, Hesiah felt…relieved. She was relieved that it was not her who was going to a Fate worse than death. She wished she could even _feel_ horror. Or pity. Or disgust.

But in this new Stone-forsaken prison that she has been thrown into, there was no room for such things. Hesiah felt as if all emotions have been burned away. There was only room for one thing in this hell and that was _survival instinct._

The dwarva had a fleeting memory of her actually kicking Fran away from her as the monsters dragged her away.

Or was _that _a hallucination too?

She sifted through her thoughts, no, it wasn't a hallucination. It was real. Fran _was _taken away.

Hesiah was safe, at least for a little while. She had noticed how the monsters took a long time to come back after they had taken one of their group.

Time enough for the chosen girl's screams to sink into her nightmares…

_Drip._

_Drip._

Oh yes, the dripping. She had to _focus _on the dripping. That was why she came awake, after all. Hesiah squinted, trying to see, in the dim light what it was exactly that was making that _awful _noise. The dimly lit prison was the same as ever, half-eaten littered all over the room, dried blood seeping into the cracks on the floor.

_Drip. _The sound was making Hesiah's head feel like it was being crushed between two boulders. She rose to her feet but hunger and exhaustion drove her to her knees.

The pain in her stomach caused her to tremble violently and she curled around it, hoping that it will bring some measure of relief. How long has it been since she's last eaten? But the memory of her last meal was enough to kill her appetite

_Drip. _

_Stone blast whatever made that sound! _

On hands and knees, Hesiah crawled around the room, whimpering and trying to find what it was the sought to torment her. Finally, she found herself at the far edge of the prison, staring at one of the monsters' corpse. Vaguely, she remembered that Fran had fought one of the monsters and how one of them fell and cracked their head upon the floor.

A brief smile touched her lips. Served them right, the stinking bleeders.

For lack of anything else to do, she studied the corpse. It was already old, smelling of rot and that foul, unique stench the dwarva had learned to associate with the monsters. Its skin looked like it had been patched together from the skins of corpses and its eyes stared back at Hesiah as if, even in death, the monster could see her.

Bile rose to her throat, threatening to choke her. She fought to keep it down.

Then, a horrible thing happened.

Her stomach started _growling. _Hesiah was actually _hungry. _For the meat of this Stone-knows-how-long dead corpse.

The idea didn't repel her as much as it should have. Hesiah had done it before, after all, when the hunger and the thirst got so bad that the only choice was eating a corpse or death. It was the same back then as it was now; she did what she had to so that she'd survive.

Her shaky fingers found themselves undoing the straps of the monster's armor, she barely had enough strength to lift the breastplate and when she did, the stench nearly overwhelmed her. Mayhap this thing had been dead longer than she thought, but Hesiah didn't think of it.There was, after all, only survival instinct left, and it dictated that she eat the corpse if she wanted to eat. She plugged her nose and cleared her mind, the dwarva wanted no thoughts about the wrongness of what she was doing. Hesiah had no knife or dagger to cut through the flesh or even a fire to cook it in, so she merely plunged her teeth deep into the soft belly of the dead creature.Thick blood burst against her tongue, threatening to choke her, to drown her, but her thirst was stronger than the flow and soon, she was sucking at it greedily as if it was mother's milk.

The blood was thicker, more difficult to swallow than that of the last monster she ate, but swallow she did. The liquid burned her throat like fire and she could feel the fever-shakes beginning.

And suddenly, she was back in Gurmak, the dwarven kingdom from which she hailed from, dining in one of its bars. Laughter and the warmth of other dwarvas surrounded her. Some making lewd jokes while others merely making pleasant conversation, Hesiah didn't care so long as she was _there,_ surrounded by friends and not trapped inside stone cold prison.

She laughed at some crude joke one of the regular customers and took a long pull from the tankard in her hand, the strong taste lichen ale swirling inside her mouth. When she was finished, she banged the tankard on the counter for more.

A barmaid came and refilled it for her and then, at Hesiah's order, set a plate of roast nug in front of her. Hesiah's mouth watered at the smell of the spices and the sight of the golden brown skin just waiting for her to sink her teeth into.

And then…and then…the dream of her dwarven kingdom snapped like a piece of thread and she was back in her prison cell, away from the bar and the food and the ale and the laughter of other dwarvas surrounding her…

One of the creatures was coming to open her cell and drag her away. It was of the smaller variety that she had seen, the one that reminded her of dwarvas who should be dead and rotting in the Stone's embrace.

Hesiah didn't know how she knew, but she did. When that steel door swings open, Hesiah could do nothing to stop the dwarva-monster from dragging her away, to that place where they had taken Fran and so many others.

Now, it would be _her _screams that would echo across the Deep Tunnels, and there would be no one to hear her. Almost as if on cue, the great door swung open, creaking noisily as it did so.

Hesiah's eyes watched fearfully as the creature swaggered over to the dark corner of her cell, not a care in the world. Milky white eyes stared at her hungrily, its claws stretching out to grab her.

_Is this it? _

A thin, keening wail escaped her. The dwarva then realized that, after all she'd been through, she wanted to _live _damn it. She wanted to live long enough to see all these creatures destroyed.

A roar rose from somewhere in the vicinity of the door and Hesiah saw, no _hallucinated—_she was sure of it, a beardless dwarva sprinting across the room with a greatsword in his hands.

His eyes were alight with a fire that Hesiah herself had not seen in a long time.

"Don't you _dare_ touch her, you scum!" the dwarva screamed and the dwarva-monster turned in his adversary's direction in time for Hesiah's hallucination to ram the hilt of his sword in the monster's stomach.

Amazingly, the monster fell to the floor. But that wasn't right.

Hallucinations can't touch the monsters.

But this one did, and it did more than touch. The beardless dwarva raised its greatsword high and brought it down with a sickening crunch against the monster stomach. Blood spattered their faces. Unconsciously, Hesiah licked the warm blood that flowed down her face.

The dwarva-monster didn't get up.

The beardless dwarva turned to her and he paled when he saw her face. For the first time, fear crossed his face. "Ancestors have mercy," he whispered and his weapon slipped through his shaking fingers. It clattered noisily to the floor.

"What happened to you?" he asked. But Hesiah was barely listening, for she knew now that this dwarva was no cruel trick of her imagination. No phantasm, no matter how powerful, could have downed the monster.

He was _real_.

In that moment, Hesiah didn't see the fear in her rescuers eyes as he looked down on her or the exhausted slump of his shoulders.

No, Hesiah saw none of these things. All she saw on her savior's face was something that she thought would never see again, something that her survival instinct told her to give up on but was now being handed to her in the form of this beardless dwarva.

In this dwarva's face, she saw hope.

**Urk! I can't believe I wrote the eating-the-corpse scene. Yuck! Sorry I put you guys through that but rest assured that this is relevant to the plot and not just the product of watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre too many times. :/ **

**Oh, and I'll probably be rewriting some scenes to make the story flow better, if I do, the chapter I replaced or edited would have the sign [edited] on the dropdown table of contents.**

**Or I'll simply post updates telling you guys which chapter I edited. I'm still thinking.**

**Oh, one last thing, on pronounciation:**

**Hesiah is pronounced Heh-say-ah not Hes-ya**


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